


So Much Of The City Is Our Bodies

by disarm_d



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canada, Hand Jobs, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Toronto, post grad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d/pseuds/disarm_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A place/ where everything too big to take apart/ had been left behind.</i>
</p><p>AU set in Toronto, Canada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much Of The City Is Our Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to castoffstarter for betaing and to randominity for letting me send this to her while I was writing and listening patiently as I endlessly changed my mind about how I wanted it to go, ♥!
> 
> Title and cut tage from [Phantom Limbs](http://disarm-d.tumblr.com/post/42936258361/so-much-of-the-city-is-our-bodies-places-in-us) by Anne Michaels.

_Even the city carries ruins in its heart./ Longs to be touched in places/ only it remembers._

 

 

**One: Louis**

Louis wrote the house number on the back of his hand but it got smudged when he pulled on his coat. It’s past eleven and the street is quiet, so it’s still easy to tell which house they’re looking for -- the only one on the street where ten people are hanging off the front porch and the music inside is loud enough to send this throbbing pulse outward to the sidewalk even from three houses away.

“Who do you know here?” Louis asks as Niall bounds ahead, making his way past the small crowd and letting them in through the front door.

“Everyone,” Niall says, and apparently he means it, because he’s immediately swallowed up by a swarm of high fives. They’re passing around two-six of vodka and Louis doesn’t recognize any of the people here, but he takes the bottle when it comes his way, and sucks down enough vodka that tears prickle furiously in the corners of his eyes before he hands it back, and after that it’s a lot easier to make friends.

It’s been a year since he broke up with Eleanor, which is long enough not to be aching over it anymore, and too long to still feel weird going out and not being part of a couple. It’s just strange to be here on his own, like even though he and Niall showed up together, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s still going to be going home alone.

Still, Niall knows how to find a good party, and this is no exception. Louis meets half a dozen new people, joins in for a quick game of Suck and Blow, and then before he knows it, he’s dancing outrageously on the heavy wooden coffee table in the middle of the room, a girl in front and a girl behind him. For a minute it feels like being on stage, like he’s putting on a show and everyone’s watching, and it’s such a relief to be playing a part again, but then he realizes that it’s not actually a role -- he’s genuinely just the drunk guy dancing on the coffee table.

He hopes that none of these pictures end up on Facebook.

“Okay,” he says when the song changes, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his face and then ruffling them up again to slide them up onto his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Niall’s nowhere to be seen, but from what Louis can hear, some people are doing keg stands in the backyard, so if he had to guess, that’s where he would look for Niall first. 

There’s a bathroom on the main floor -- there’s _got_ to be, but Louis isn’t sure exactly where, and it seems like enough people have spread to the upstairs that he doesn’t feel guilty about walking up as well. It’s easy to tell where the bathroom is here, because the line is already four people long.

Louis can’t stand _waiting_ , so he walks to the end of the hall, poking his head through the open door.

It’s a second kitchen, which is great because Louis could probably use a glass of water, but when he walks inside and rounds the corner, he sees that there’s already someone there, standing at the sink.

“Oh, sorry,” Louis says.

“That’s all right,” the guy says. “Do you need something?”

Louis stands awkwardly, unsure if he should just double back. The whole house felt like the party, like Louis could go anywhere he pleased, but he is suddenly reminded that it’s a _house_ , that people actually live here, that not all of the space is communal.

“I was just going to get some water,” Louis says. “But it’s okay.”

“No, come on, I can get you a glass.”

The guy pulls an actual water glass out of the cupboard and grabs a Brita jug out of the fridge to fill it with water before passing it over to Louis.

“Thanks, man,” Louis says. He was going to stick his head under the faucet; he hasn’t even been using a glass to drink alcohol for most of the night, and this water feels unexpectedly extravagant. That’s the thing about parties like this -- there’s a host, but the host is probably just as drunk as everyone else. No one’s paying attention, except maybe to ensure that none of the people are stupid enough to vomit inside. There’s definitely no one checking if people need water.

He watches the guy over the rim of the glass as he pulls a pot off the stove and uses the lid to drain the boiling water into the sink, dumping in the packet of powdered cheese as he finishes stirring together a pot of Kraft Dinner.

“We’ve met before,” Louis says, quirking his mouth to the side as he tries to pull a name to mind. “Niall’s birthday last year -- at Sweaty Betty’s, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I was at that,” the guy says. “I’m Zayn.”

“Louis.”

Zayn’s still holding the handle of the pot in one hand and he wipes his other hand on his pants before grabbing Louis’s hand in a quick, soft handshake.

“You want some?” Zayn asks, giving the macaroni another stir.

“I don’t want to steal your dinner,” Louis says.

“Nah, it’s never a good idea to eat the whole box by yourself,” Zayn says, reaching to the cupboard for two bowls. “It seems like it will be a good idea, but then you’re like two spoons away from being done and you realize that you’ve just punished your intestines in a way that they never really needed to be punished.”

Louis snorts. The bowl Zayn hands him looks like white ceramic but feels like plastic when he reaches for it.

“Kraft Dinner is basically the healthiest thing I know how to make myself for supper,” Louis says.

There’s a wooden table pushed against the blank wall that’s almost twice as big as what would comfortably fit in the room and piled high with cereal boxes and empty plastic containers and an unusually large stack of phone books.

Louis pulls the far chair away from the table -- there’s a copy of The Star on it, but that’s not breakable, so Louis sits down on top of it.

Zayn’s perched on the other side of the side of the table, his feet up on the chair so he’s squatting instead of sitting, his bowl of K.D. resting on his knee. Louis hasn’t eaten anything since the shwarma he grabbed on his way home, which, okay, was only like three hours ago but he feels suddenly famished.

“This is good,” Louis says, “thanks.”

Zayn nods, his mouth full.

“Your roommate’s throwing a party?” Louis asks, like it isn’t already obvious.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Just didn’t really feel like a crowd tonight.”

“Sorry,” Louis says. The bass of the music is pulsing against the soles of his feet. He can’t quite make out the words of the song and it makes the beat feel even stronger, like the music has wrapped around the whole house, fused into the walks and the floors, and is now travelling up the legs of Louis’s chair.

“Not your fault,” Zayn says.

“Do you want us to go?” Louis asks. He knows like at least three people in the party, but he could probably still convince everyone else to leave, maybe, probably.

Zayn laughs, “No, no, it’s good. Just needed to, like, fortify myself before heading down.”

“With booze though,” Louis says. “How is macaroni going to help get you ready for a party?”

“Fair point,” Zayn says. He walks over, grabbing Louis’s bowl and his own and putting them in the sink before reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a mikey of rum.

“Aw, damn,” Zayn says, “this isn’t even full.”

“Remember in, like, junior high,” Louis says, “when you’d get a mikey to drink to a party and it was a contest to see who could finish the whole thing, and then you’d be _so_ so drunk afterwards?”

“Maybe more like high school,” Zayn says, “but yeah, sure.”

“And now you realize, mikeys are like eight drinks,” Louis says. “It’s not even that much.”

“Are they really only eight drinks?” Zayn says, pouring half of what is left in the bottle into Louis’s water glass. There was still maybe a sip of water left in the bottom of the glass, but that just makes it go down easier.

“I think?” Louis says. “How many ounces are there?”

“Dunno,” Zayn says, without looking at the bottle. “Do you need a mixer?”

“Nah,” Louis says, especially not with the little bit of water left to cut the sharpest edge of the alcohol. It also helps that he’s been drinking already.

Zayn shakes the mikey around, watching critically as the rum splashes around, and then he lifts it to his mouth and downs the rest in one go, setting the now-empty bottle on the table and wiping at his mouth with the corner of his sleeve.

“Well, there it is,” Zayn says. He blinks, like he’s a little surprised with himself, even though clearly he knew exactly what he was doing, and Louis hurries to finish what is left in his glass.

Zayn walks over to the sink and starts splashing around, or trying to do the dishes, or whatever. Being at the sink is silly, Louis thinks. There’s no reason why Zayn needs to be there.

He walks over and hops up on the counter, pushing three cups and a plate aside to make room for his ass.

“I thought you were fortifying yourself,” Louis asks.

“That wasn’t very much rum,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose. He sloshes some water over a fork and then puts it in the drying rack.

“I’ll be back,” Louis says, hopping off the counter.

He takes off down the hallway, realizes once he’s already down two stairs that the bathroom is free, dashes inside to pee quickly -- it’s a weird bathroom with this full mirror running across the length of the back wall, but maybe there was a fire or something because the mirror has this grey tinge to it and it’s not fully reflective any longer. And _then_ he runs downstairs.

He brought a twelve-pack of Richards Red with him (not a strong choice, but it was the only thing he could find as twelve that was already chilled), except it seems like someone else drank it all, because the box is empty and Louis only remembers drinking the two he had during the walk over. So he doesn’t feel guilty about snatching the mostly full two-six of Smirnoff from the counter by the fridge, tucking it somewhat stealthily under his arm just in case someone notices as he makes his way back up the stairs.

When he walks back into the second kitchen, Zayn is still at the sink, and he seems surprised to see Louis, even though Louis _said_ he’d be back.

“Here you go,” Louis says, pushing the bottle into Zayn’s wet hands. There are still a few plates and glasses in the sink, plus the two bowls they just ate out of, and if he were a better person he would probably help to clean them, but Louis doesn’t even do his own dishes: he’s certainly not going to do someone else’s.

He doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink, because most of it has been straight from the bottle and not measured out, but he feels drunk.

“Your house is going to be trashed tomorrow,” Louis says.

“Probably,” Zayn says, a little disgruntled, but mostly resigned. “Aiden’s the one who has to clean it up though.”

“Is he actually going to?” Louis says, because he’s thrown more than a couple parties that Liam has done most of the cleaning for afterward.

“Probably,” Zayn says. “Either way, it isn’t going to be me.”

Zayn’s eyelashes are longer than anything Louis has ever seen before. He thinks that he’s meant to be steering them back to the party, but he doesn’t want to. He likes being here, like he’s the only one allowed in Zayn’s kitchen, likes that he’s got an _in_.

“Firm,” Louis says, admiringly. He likes a person who is as indisposed to cleaning as he is. Although, Zayn’s basically spent this entire time cleaning up after himself in the kitchen, so not _quite_ like Louis.

“Are we still trying to get you fortified?” Louis asks, because at one time there was a point to all this alcohol.

“Don’t know,” Zayn says.

“I don’t -- we don’t have to go anywhere,” Louis says. His head isn’t quite in the right place for a party. Or maybe it is, but the kind of place where he’s happy to be in a house with the music so loud that the windows are trembling but he’s still tucked away somewhere removed from the crowd. “Unless you still think you want to be alone,” Louis says, belatedly, even though he can’t actually remember at this point whether Zayn said he wanted to be alone or just that he didn’t want to be at the party.

“This is good,” Zayn says, finally wiping his hands off on his jeans and stepping away from the sink to sit down beside Louis at the table.

Louis loses track of time and the next thing he knows it’s past three am and the subways aren’t running any longer.

“I hate the night bus,” Louis says, sadly. Niall is long gone. Everyone is long gone, really. A few stragglers are left downstairs, having a deep conversation in the kitchen. There’s a couple making out on the front porch but they look too tired to get up to much else.

“You can sleep over,” Zayn says, holding the front door open as Louis pulls his coat tight and fumbles with the zipper. It’s just filled with foam, not proper downe, and it doesn’t cut the cold as well as Louis would like given how drunk he was a few hours ago.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, setting his shoulders down against the long shiver that runs up his spine. “Thanks, though.” He walks down the steps, leading away from the house, and turns around once he’s hit the sidewalk to wave at Zayn, who’s still standing in the doorway.

Louis takes a couple side streets and manages to pop out on Bloor, which was luck more than anything because all of the streets looked the same -- brick semis with wooden porches and a small patch of grass in the front. Zayn lives in the Annex, so the streets are still pretty busy for how late it is, groups of students meandering home, a few houses where the lights are still on and the party seems to have stayed strong into the early morning.

Louis lives at the far end of Bloorcourt Village and it’s a long way to walk, but still better than waiting for the bus at night.

Most of the cars driving down Bloor are cabs, and other than that the street is quiet. It’s cold, and eventually Louis’s face starts to burn from it. They’ve had snow but then it got warm and the rain washed it all away, so the sidewalk is clear as Louis walks along. It feels like it’s going to snow again soon; the air is sharp and clear and there’s not a cloud in the night sky, so it won’t be snowing tonight, but soon.

He’s walked this stretch countless times, but it’s different without the crowds, different when all the stores are closed. The street’s well lit and occasionally Louis walks past other people. He feels like he’s part of streetscape now, like there’s always meant to be someone walking home in the dead of night and tonight he’s that person, sobering up in the cold, his legs going numb so all he has to do is put his head down and keep moving forward and eventually his feet get him home. It’s reassuring, because even though he’s still stupid drunk, he knows how to do this, he knows how to get to where he needs to be. He just wishes he could also feel this way when it wasn’t four in the morning.

\--

\---

\--

**Two: Harry**

“To Harry,” Nick says, raising his glass and gesturing comically until everyone else at the table does the same. Rather a lot of beer is being spilled.

“Nick,” Harry starts, warningly. Nick’s speeches are usually inappropriate or _long_ or both.

“To Harry,” Nick says again, and Harry ducks, letting his hair fall into his eyes even though it does little to cover his face, “and his shiny new lawyer-hood. Lawyer-ship?”

“I was called to the bar,” Harry says. “Christ, Nick.”

“A-plus lawyer boss status achievement,” Nick finishes. “Contragustations to Harry. Let him remember this night and always answer our calls for free legal advice.”

And then there’s some clapping and a lot of drinking and eventually everyone seems distracted again, so Harry can scoop his hair away from his face and look up. He doesn’t spend much time talking about what he does -- first because he was still in school when everyone had already graduated (nothing wrong with being younger than everyone, but people still get a bit snippy about being reminded that they’d hanging out with a student), then because he was articling, which was like a _real job_. Nick dicks around at the 88.1 Indie Toronto and gets his paycheque selling tickets at Lee’s Palace, Pixie’s done like three modeling campaigns for this hole in the wall on Queen Street, and Henry’s going to be a fashion designer but right now he works at Anthropology, and no one gives a shit that Harry spent sixty-five hours last week drafting a briefing for a developer who wanted to appeal the city of Burlington raising development charges.

“Nice one, rockstar,” Nick says, quietly, just for Harry and not the whole table. He sounds sincere for the first time.

“Thanks,” Harry says.

This is the third celebratory dinner he’s been to this week. First with his parents, who took him to Scaramouche where he had a roasted partridge breast with pan-seared foie gras, farro heirloom carrots, and braised belgian endives with a blood orange reduction; then out with his other friends from law school to Jack Astor’s for a buffalo chicken cobb salad; and now he’s at Black Bull with non-school friends eating deep fried perogies.

“Are you excited?” Nick asks.

“It’s the same, isn’t it. I’m not changing jobs or anything.” Harry articled at one of the big five on Bay Street and then they hired him on. It’s great, but it’s not exactly unexpected.

“Well, you’re not a little bitch boy anymore,” Nick says. “Now you’re a fancy man.”

“I’m a first year associate,” Harry says.

“It’s good,” Nick says, “why aren’t you excited?”

“I am,” Harry says, giving Nick a smile and then reaching across the table for the pitcher of Steamwhistle. He’s so used to brushing everything off as nothing that he can’t even tell now if he’s acting on habit or if he’s genuinely feeling nonchalant. He’s known he was going to be a lawyer for as long as he can remember; maybe it’s just hard to get excited about a forgone conclusion.

“Assholes,” Aimee says, cutting her gaze sideways to the table full of men in suits sitting one over from them.

The waitress looks pained and is laughing awkwardly, so even though Harry missed the joke, he can catch the gist of it.

“Why do that they do that, anyway?” Nick asks. “Come in here in their suits.”

“Probably came straight from work.” Pixie says, which is also what Harry was thinking, but he wasn’t about to say so out loud.

Nick rolls his eyes. “Bet not. They probably went home first to change. Douchebags.”

Harry plays with the edge of his phone, surprised when it actually lights up under his fingertips with a text from Niall, _You coming out t night? Louis’s dancing on a table your missing out !_

 _I’m with Nick, how long are you going to be there?_ Harry texts back.

It takes a long time before Niall texts again. Three more pitches of beer come to the table and leave empty, before Niall replies with:

 _They ad a keg but iy ran out do leaving anytomes_.

 _You want to meet up with us ?_ Harry texts, because there’s nothing better than a drunk Niall on the hunt for more beer.

By the time Niall actually arrives, everyone else is about to clear out.

“Sorry that took so long,” “Niall says. “Didn’t actually get to leave right away.” He’s flushed, his hair pushed away from his face, baseball cap backwards on his head. He’s wearing white high tops, jeans, and his parka’s unzipped to show his grey hoodie underneath.

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “We’re heading to Disgraceland now. So let’s grab the Queen streetcar to the subway.”

“Or we take the bus up Spadina and then we’re not going in the complete opposite direction of where we want to be,” Niall says.

“No,” Harry groans. “Tracks are under construction so the streetcars aren’t running.”

“I don’t understand your refusal to take buses,” Niall says. “They’re not worse than streetcars.”

“I don’t trust them,” Harry says, “they don’t go on tracks. It’s all bumpy.”

“Have you ever seen twelve streetcars all piled all along the street because the one in front is stalled and then _no_ one can get to work?”

“ _Yes,_ because I’ve been on St. Clair,” Harry says.

“So,” Niall says pointedly.

“We’re not trying to get to work,” Harry says.

Niall chortles delightedly, but still shakes his head.

“I don’t even feel like going anywhere else,” Harry says. “You want to just come back to mine?”

It’s maybe 50-50 that Niall will actually come back; he’d rather go somewhere than stay in, and even though he doesn’t know Nick’s friends as well as Harry does, he’s never had a problem tagging along with people he doesn’t know. Everyone Niall meets is just someone he hasn’t yet had the chance to make friends with.

“Yeah, alright,” Niall says.

They take a cab back to his condo because now that it’s just him and Niall, no one’s going to gawk about the cab fare. Niall’s happy enough to sit with Harry in the back of the car, trying drunkenly to text on his phone. He’s on his iPhone for most of the trip, but eventually pulls a Blackberry out of his pocket and fumbles with the unlock button long enough that Harry takes it away from him.

“What’s this?” Harry asks. “You know so many people that you can’t keep up using just one phone?”

“Work Blackberry,” Niall says. “Need to see if I’ve got any emails.”

“Maybe not tonight, drunkie,” Harry says, sliding the phone back into Niall’s pocket. He can’t imagine that anyone would have emailed Niall this late anyway; Niall does something related to marketing, Harry’s not exactly sure, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of job where there would ever be people needing to email Niall in the middle of the night.

Niall goes for it again, but they’re pulling in front of Harry’s building and he distracts Niall by pushing him out the side of the cab.

They take the elevator up to Harry’s condo and Niall makes himself at home, hopping up on the breakfast bar instead of sitting on one of the stools.

Harry opens his fridge and says, “I’ve got Waterloo Dark, Mill Street Organic, and Richards White.”

“Dark,” Niall says. “Thanks.”

Harry’s also got a dozen bottles of wine, Smirnoff for when Louis comes, Barardi for Nick, Crown Royal for his mom, Knob Creek for his dad. He’s got Bombay Sapphire and tonic in the fridge because that’s what the girls he brings back usually ask for.

He passes Niall his beer and then pours himself a glass of apple juice.

“Should we be drinking champagne?” Niall asks, and then lifts his beer to toast Harry with that instead. “Congrats, man. That’s really awesome.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, taking another sip of apple juice, and then leaving the glass on the counter to grab a beer out of the fridge instead.

The kitchen’s open to the rest of the condo, and Harry follows Niall into the main part of the room, sitting on the other side of the sectional.

“I remember what it was like when I started working,” Niall says. “It’s a bit fucked.”

Niall graduated and started working faster than any of them, but sometimes Harry forgets it because Niall’s more likely to talk about the last concert he’s been to than what he did during his work day.

“It’s good,” Harry says. “It’s just. I guess this is it now.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, shrugging. He’s pink-cheeked and started to get a bit squinty-eyed, like maybe all the alcohol has finally caught up with him. He still looks happy, sinking lower and lower on Harry’s black leather sectional until his back is almost flat along the seat. His legs are spread in front of him, loose jeans hanging off his open thighs. Harry almost never hangs out with Niall when it’s just the two of them -- Niall’s loud and excitable and always the center of the crowd, but somehow it still feels comfortable now. Like Niall’s actually let down his guard down enough to look tired in front of Harry; Harry’s never seen him look tired before.

“It’s a bit fucked,” Harry echoes. “But it’s good, it’s fine. I’m happy.” Harry’s probably also tired now, but his brain is nowhere near quiet enough to let him slide down in the sofa, and anyway his back is killing him after a week hunched in front of the computer and over a notebook in meetings and curled around his phone.

“Are you?” Niall asks.

Harry takes a long drag of beer, finishes what is left and then holding the empty bottle between his open palms. “I think I’m going to be.”

\--

\---

\--

**Three: Louis**

“I can’t and I won’t,” Louis says, pulling what he can reach of his comforter over his head. The entire lower half of his body is uncovered from where Liam has yanked the blanket away.

“I have to be at work in twenty minutes,” Liam says.

“I don’t,” Louis says, trying to pull his blanket back.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh my god, Liam,” Louis says, sitting up in a huff. “Just send me a text later.”

“It’s important,” Liam says. He lets go of Louis’s blanket now that Louis is no longer actively trying to hide from him.

“Well,” Louis says, after a long minute where Liam doesn’t say anything, important or otherwise. “I already know how you look when you’re standing in stunned silence. You didn’t need to wake me up to demonstrate.”

“I’m moving in with Dani,” Liam finally says. “We’re, um. We’re moving in together.”

Louis blinks. Liam and Danielle broke up last summer, and even though they were back together by the fall, but Louis had kind of thought it was just a last stint before they broke up for real. 

“But you live with me,” Louis says. He rubs his hand over his face. It wasn’t fair of Liam to spring this on him so early. “I mean -- that’s great. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Liam says, his face lighting up. “I’m really excited. I kind of proposed? But she said that we should live together first, so that’s what we’re doing. It’s going to be great.”

“You proposed,” Louis echoes.

“Not properly,” Liam says. “I didn’t have a ring or anything. It was kind of just talking.”

“And then you asked her to marry you.”

“Yeah. But for now just living together.”

“Right,” Louis says. He’s been sharing a one bedroom with Liam for almost a year now. Liam’s got the front room, which is also sort of their living room, because there’s a couch on the other side of Liam’s bed. It works okay because Liam wakes up early.

Liam’s looking at Louis expectantly and Louis tries to remember if he’s supposed to ask for the security deposit back or something (except he’s pretty sure Liam paid that in the first place), until he realizes that Liam is waiting for his reaction.

“That’s awesome, bro,” Louis says. “Congrats.” He untangles himself from the blankets and scoots over to the side of the bed so that he can pull Liam in for a hug.

When they part, Liam’s grinning like an idiot.

“I’m really excited,” Liam says. “I didn’t know if she’d say yes.”

Doesn’t seem like she actually did say yes, Louis thinks unkindly, but makes sure to keep a smile on his face. It’s not -- it’s not Liam’s fault. Louis thought that he’d be the first one married and instead he’s perpetually single (which is really more wretched than inspirational posters led him to believe); he thought Liam was going to be his roommate... maybe not _forever_ but for a lot longer than this.

“So when are you leaving?”

“I’m giving you two months notice,” Liam says. “Like how you’re supposed to. I’ll still pay rent until April. But, I mean, I’m probably going to start moving my stuff over there pretty soon. I mean, just gradually. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

Louis hardly notices when Liam’s around these days, which is less and less common lately.

He’s been friends since back when he was going to York University and Liam was still trying to make it as a singer by playing all these little gigs in coffee shops. Liam’s the most ambitious person that Louis knows, but he was crap at school and never found a band he wanted to join and doesn’t really write his own songs, and there are only so many places that will book a guy with a great voice and no original material. Liam works at this auto parts factory down past Lakeshore during the day and usually gets at least one gig a week signing covers at corporate parties or wherever.

Louis thought he was going to be an actor before he realized that even being a drama teacher was pushing it. When he and Liam first moved in together, Louis had this idea of them being a team, like they’d both go to auditions and drink when they didn’t get the gig and then Louis would come watch Liam sing and Liam would be in the crowd watching Louis on opening night. And Louis _has_ gone to see Liam when he’s been booked, but there’s literally no point to an actor who doesn't audition, and Louis can’t even remember the last time he went to a casting call. Liam leaving is screwing up Louis’s plan right now, but every other part along the way has been screwed up by Louis.

Liam leaves for work and Louis drags himself out of bed, his body feeling tired, verging on hungover if he gives any attention to the dry rasp of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s cranky and it’s not even eight in the morning, which is an absolutely ridiculous time to be awake. Liam is the worst roommate ever; Louis will be glad to see him gone.

\--

Louis’s too old to make new friends, but he’s got Zayn added on Facebook, and Zayn actually comes online, and then they’re just talking about whether or not it is a complete bastardization of canon to have Batman settle down with Catwoman when Zayn has to go because he’s done work but Louis doesn’t have any groceries so it makes sense to meet up for dinner.

“It seems like we’re stress drinking,” Zayn says after Louis says _yes_ without checking with Zayn first when the waitress asks if they want another pitcher.

“We are,” Louis says. “You’re observant and you should never do anything to hurt your eyeballs.”

“Definitely wasn’t planning on it,” Zayn says.

“I’m basically being evicted,” Louis says, sighing loudly and using the edge of his thumbnail to pick at the edge of the cardboard coaster under his beer which has gone soft from the condensation.

“Really?” Zayn asks.

“My roommate is moving out,” Louis says.

“So, that’s not quite the same thing as being evicted,” Zayn says and then gives Louis a deliberately cheesy grin and a thumbs up.

Louis scoffs. “It’s the intent of... the effect of something. My lawyer friend would know. I’ve got a lawyer friend,” Louis says. “And my roommate is moving out because he’s going to marry his girlfriend. I’m old, everyone around me is old, the entire world is moving on without me.”

Louis says it darkly, ridiculously, and hopes that Zayn knows he’s meant to take it as a joke even though it’s basically the truth.

“You can’t be older than me,” Zayn says.

“I just turned twenty-six,” Louis says, pulling heavy weight on every syllable. “Actually, that was like two months ago now. It’s not even just! I’m fully twenty-six.”

“You were born in December?”

“The day before Christmas,” Louis says. “Everything in my life is the worst, and has been since day one. My mom even held me back a year, but it didn’t help.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It was either be the very oldest or the very youngest, so I was the oldest, which was great for that one beautiful year that I was actually taller than everyone and has been completely useless ever since.”

“You could drink in first year,” Zayn points out.

Outside, it’s starting to snow -- heavy flurries whipped around by the wind so the whole sky has gone hazy with it, a white fog settling in as well. It’s still early in February and it’s been steadily cold for ages now, so Louis thinks it’s probably going to stick. He takes a long drink from his pint glass.

“And now I’m 26, which is closer to 30 than to 20. I’m closer to being middle aged than I am to being a teenager.”

“Don’t think anyone counts 30 as middle aged anymore,” Zayn says. “And I turned 25 like two weeks after you, but I think we’re probably both going to be alright.”

“ _Twenty-six_ ,” Louis moans. “Why are people getting married?”

“You don’t want to get married?” Zayn asks.

“Of course I want to get married,” Louis says. “I want to get married and have at least half a dozen babies. I just don’t want everyone else to get married. I don’t think I’m going to do very well living on my own.”

“Can you afford to keep the place yourself?” Zayn asks.

Technically, the answer is yes. When Liam and Louis first started living together, Louis was mostly only working day shifts, where tips were crap. He’s on full time now, and he always gets at least one of the Friday or Saturday night shifts, and has only dropped the tray full of glasses like twice in the entire past year, so he’s basically a god at work now. He’d have to cut back on his student loan repayments a bit, but there was no way he was paying those off before he turns thirty anyway. He’s also never going to be able to finish paying off his credit card bill, and at least 60% of his income would be going toward rent, but that’s... “afford” is a complicated term.

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I am not a banker.”

“What?” Zayn gasps. “I had no idea.”

Louis laughs and swats at Zayn’s hand, resting on the other side of the table. It’s easy to be with Zayn, easier than it should be given that they hardly know each other. Maybe that’s what Louis needs right now -- a new friend who’s only ever seen him drunk.

“Are you still hungry?” Zayn asks. “Do you want to share sweet potato fries?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. He pours what is left in the pitcher into Zayn’s glass and says, “And we can get another one of these.”

\--

\---

\--

**Four: Harry**

It’s been a long week, and half of Harry wishes that he’d just gone home, but when the office was starting to clear out at eight and everyone was talking about where to go for dinner, Harry came along.

They’re at the Spring Roll in the Atrium on Bay, with more chairs than can comfortable fit around the two tables, pushed together. Harry’s stuck between Simon, who’s one of the junior partners and someone that Harry probably does need to suck up to, and Brock, who’s only a second year associate but has the office right beside Harry’s.

He keeps trying to talk to Rita, sitting across from him, but there’s a giant vase filled with water and a couple floating orchids getting in the way.

“Nice,” Simon says, meanly.

Harry turns his head, following Simon’s gaze out the window. He sees purple pants and for a moment he thinks it’s Nick, he thinks it’s Nick walking past the restaurant while Harry’s sitting here at this table full of men in suits and they’re talking shit about how he’s dressed, but it’s not Nick. It’s another tall guy in tight maroon pants and enough swagger to make them work for him.

“I just hate it when they’re so obvious about it,” Simon says, turning away.

“Fags know how to dress,” Brock says. “That’s the worst part -- women are into it.”

“Is that true then?” Simon says to Rita.

“No, I wouldn’t say women are usually into sleeping with gay men,” Rita says, with a sharp smile. She’s too beautiful not to know how to hold her own, all blonde hair and dark skin and bright red lipstick.

Brock snorts, and passes a derisive look over Harry’s head to Simon, and Harry keeps his head ducked down, staring at his plate and pretending that not saying anything is the same as not being part of the conversation.

It gets easier after that. The vodka tonics make it easier, and everyone else loosens up. Simon even puts his Blackberry in his pocket instead leaving it beside his glass where he can attend to it constantly, and when the cheque comes, he puts his credit card down for the whole table.

They all head out together afterward, and that was Harry’s chance to slide away, but he’s not tired anymore, and his dad always said that no one should ever go home before his boss does. It’s brutally icy outside because it warmed only long enough for the majority of the snow to melt and then freeze again; the sidewalks are black with ice, and Harry watches his feet as he walks. Yonge Street is bright from the lights and the billboards; even in the night it’s bright, only the sidewalks are dark.

They go to the Pravda Vodka Bar, wait in line at the door, wait in line for coat check, wait in line at the bar.

It’s crowded inside and they walk upstairs but it’s not any better up there.

“God, look at the rack on that one,” Brock says, speaking too loudly for how close he is to Harry’s ear, like he can only halfway follow through on his original plan to whisper.

Harry nods, looking across the club. There are any number of women with noteworthy racks, but eventually he follows Brock’s gaze to the blonde in this halter-strappy thing.

Simon seems to have cued in to the conversation and gives a low whistle.

“Nice,” he says, and then both Brock and Simon are looking at him expectantly.

“Sure,” Harry says. “Nice.”

“Okay, rookie. It’s time for boys to become men,” Simon says. “Go pick her up.”

“Seriously?” Harry asks, sounding more annoyed than he means to, given that Simon is his _boss_.

“Seriously,” Simon says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Harry gives him a long look, takes in the smug grin that Simon is just managing to hold back, the one that’s already plastered across Brock’s face. Harry knows how this goes, knows they’re just trying to give him a hard time to make a point. He’s not one to fight to be top dog; he’s young and he looks it. He’s still awkward and soft around the edges, and the main way he knows how to be friends with men is to be accommodating -- the main way he knows how to be friends with _anyone_ is to be accommodating, and it’d be easy to let them turn him into the butt of a joke, but there’s something prickly inside of him tonight.

“Alright,” Harry says. They both look surprised, and just like that Harry’s set. He spent his second year at Western learning how to pick up girls in clubs. It was kind of stupid, but there was this group of them that went out all the time, and it seemed like. Whatever. Like a bit of a challenge, and Harry likes getting good at things that are difficult.

He knocks back the rest of his drink and hands the empty glass to Brock just to be an ass about it, then walks up beside the blonde, who’s waiting in the crowd at the bar.

“Well, that’s not going well,” he comments, keeping his voice soft, just enough volume to be heard over the music. When she turns her head to look at him, he tilts his chin toward the bar, where a red faced guy who’s popped the collar of his button-up is gesturing angrily. The bartender looks a little nervous, but mostly angry.

“Probably cutting him off,” the woman says.

“I hate it when people turn into douchebags when they’re drunk,” Harry says.

“How do you know he’s not always a douchebag?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, “maybe I like thinking the best of people.”

“Really?” she asks.

“No,” Harry says after a beat, laughing. He times it right, and she giggles a little as well. “He’s probably definitely a douchebag all of the time.”

“Signs point to yes,” the woman says.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Harry asks. “If they ever start serving again. What are you drinking?”

“Gin and Tonic,” she says.

“I’m Harry,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand, but in this kind of ironic way, where he makes it clear that he knows he’s being a dork.

“Lindsay,” she says, letting Harry hold her hand for one long second.

The wait is long enough that by the time they’ve made their way to the bar, he’s learned that she’s just started a new job as a receptionist at the main CTV office but that she wants to be in front of the camera one day. He can’t tell if she knows how much older than him she is, if that’s part of it for her.

He buys her a drink, then another one. From the other side of the bar, he can see Simon and Brock watching him. Broke looks a little impressed and a little disgruntled and when Harry makes eye contact, Simon lifts his hands to clap slowly, showily, his arms lifted above his head.

Harry clenches his jaw, and looks over to make sure Lindsay hasn’t noticed, but if she has she doesn’t react.

That’s Harry’s cue: he’s good to go back to the group now, he’s made his point, but fuck that.

“My condo’s close,” Harry says, touching his fingers to Lindsay’s hip under the pretext of leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You want to have another drink back at mine?”

“Okay,” she says, after a pause that’s just long enough to make it look like she’s thinking it over.

“Okay?” Harry repeats, angling his body towards hers so that she looks him in the eye, and then grinning.

“Okay,” she says again, but she’s smiling too this time.

He slings his arm around her shoulders and follows half a step behind as she walks towards the door, doesn’t look back to say goodbye to anyone from work.

It’s close enough that they could walk if they _really_ wanted to, but Harry hails a cab, holds the door open for her, gives his address. He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket but he doesn’t pull it out to check the message.

The concierge opens the door for them when Harry waves at the front door, and Lindsay says, “So what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Harry says, hoping it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels in his mouth. This is something that he gets to say now.

It’s a long wait for the elevator, and the lobby of the building is too brightly lit. Harry rubs at his forehead, and tries to ignore how exhausted he suddenly feels. It’s been a long week.

When they’re finally inside his condo, he locks the door behind them, throws his keys onto the little side table and asks, “Should I open some wine?”

“Sounds good,” Lindsay says, touching her fingers to the wall as she works open the strap on her shoe.

Harry walks to the counter and pulls the top bottle off the built in wine rack.

“Can I see your balcony?” Lindsay asks.

“Yeah, come on,” Harry says. He pulls open the door and grits his teeth against the sudden gust of wind. It’s not _that_ cold, but it’s strong, and he has to give a yank before the door slides the rest of the way open.

“God,” Lindsay says, stepping outside. “What a view.”

He’s too far north to see the lake, but there’s a clear view of the CN Tower, all of the other skyscrapers in between, the glowing squares of countless windows, flashes of neon and tiny pricks of light from cars floating around at ground level.

Lindsay’s hair is whipping around and she tries to tuck it behind her ears, her cheeks gone pink, face just visible in the soft blue darkness. Harry keeps the door open behind them, the heat from inside provides just enough of a backbone against the fierce wind slamming between all of the skyscrapers.

Harry wraps his hand around the rail of the balcony, locks his knees against the sudden wave of vertigo. He feels like he’s posing for someone to take a picture of his life. In this moment, he’s finally slotted into place, exactly where he’s meant to be: the condo and his job and the beautiful woman to bring home at night, looking out over the city. Like from this great height he can see enough of the world to understand how all of the pieces are supposed to fit together. This is what he’s been working for, this is what everyone wants for him, this is what he should want for himself.

The way Lindsay is staring at him makes him think he looks exactly how he’s supposed to, his slacks and blazer and v-necked t-shirt. Like he’s young and competent and happy, and he waits for the moment when all the pieces clicking into place starts to feel _good_ , waits to feel anything other than numb, alone on the edge like he’s about to fall off into the sea of lights.

He forces himself to let go of the railing, to reach for Lindsay instead. His hands feel entirely removed from his body, but her skin is warm when he touches her.

She smiles and he says, “Let’s go back inside.”

\--

\---

\--

**Five: Louis**

Louis doesn’t know if Liam is actually gone more now than he was before, or if he’s just noticing it in the lead up to Liam being _gone_ gone for good, but Louis tries to fill up his nights when he’s not working. He has the late lunch/early dinner shift on Saturday and is sitting across from Niall at Fran’s by eight.

“Where are we going after this?” Louis asks, finishing the last bite of his burger.

“Mh, Josh and his friends are having dinner at The Drake and then I think there’s dancing at The Ballroom after if we want to meet up with them. Or I think Aiden's having another houseparty. I could text Harry and see what he’s up to now, but he said that he’s with work people tonight, so he might still be busy.”

“Have you and Harry started hanging out?” Louis asks. He thinks that Harry might be the only person in the world that he introduced to Niall, instead of vise versa.

“Sure,” Niall says. “He’s a great guy.” Most of Niall’s face is hidden behind the giant turkey club that he’s stuffing into his mouth, but there’s still something about the way he says it that has Louis leaning in, suddenly alert to even the faintest hint of blood in the water.

“How great of a guy is Harry?” Louis asks. “On a scale from one to ten.”

“Shove it, Tommo,” Niall says, laughing before he’s distracted by a sudden barrage of beeps and buzzes coming from his pocket.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling out his phone. “This is work.”

Louis watches as he checks the screen, his grin slowly sliding off of his face.

“Aw, crap,” Niall says, typing away furiously on his Blackberry. “Crap, crap, crap, shit, balls.”

“It’s going well then?” Louis asks.

Niall looks up, eyes darting around frantically before settling on Louis’s face.

“Got to go in to work,” Niall says. He pushes his pint glass over to Louis and says, “You finish this.”

“Did someone die?” Louis asks, because Niall has never in his life met a beer that he couldn’t finish.

“They spelled someone’s name wrong in the brochure and just figured it out, so I’ve got to go down to stop it on press, and then proof it once they’ve made the change.”

“‘Kay,” Louis says, pulling Niall’s beer towards himself. “Have fun with that.”

Niall’s halfway out the door before he stops, freezing comically and doubling back.

“Forgot,” he says pulling a little sandwich bag with a... piece of paper folded inside? Louis can’t tell what it is, but Niall says, “Can’t bring this with me, can you hold it for a bit?”

“ _Oh,_ ” Louis says, delighted. “Are you carrying narcotics?” The weed is wrapped up in a piece of white computer paper, hidden in the sandwich bag even though it reeks enough that no one could be close enough to see the bag and still have any question about what’s in there.

“I don’t think pot counts as a narcotic,” Niall says. “Just, hold on to this so I don’t bring half a quarter with me to the printing press.”

“I’m going to charge you a carrying fee,” Louis says.

Niall laughs, already powering his way back out the door. He calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah, just don’t finish it all.”

This night has taken an unexpected upturn, Louis thinks, pocketing the baggie.

As he waits for the bill, he texts Zayn, _I hear your having another party, you want me to bring over some party favours?_

\--

Louis doesn’t even have the address written on his hand this time, and it takes him a while before he finds the right house, again following the throb of the base along the sidewalk and pushing past the crowd gathered by the front door.

He walks right upstairs, but Zayn isn’t in the kitchen, so he loops back downstairs and eventually bumps up against Zayn, who’s having a smoke on the back patio.

“You’re at the party this time,” Louis says, knocking his knuckles against Zayn’s gently in greeting.

“Guess so,” Zayn says.

“Here, enough of that,” Louis says, plucking what is left of his cigarette out of his mouth and throwing it on the ground. He pushes and prods until Zayn walks back into the house, pauses only to grab a bottle of rum off the table on his way back in through the first floor kitchen, and keeps pushing without any real plan up to the second floor until they end up in Zayn’s bedroom. He didn’t realize that Zayn’s room was on this floor, but it makes sense that he would use the kitchen on the same floor as his room. Or. There are a lot of kitchens. Rental houses are weird.

Zayn’s got posters all over his walls, and some printouts that probably aren’t posters and look like artwork.

“Did you do this?” Louis asks, pointing at what he would guess to be a semi-abstract representation of the white Power Ranger. He hands the bottle of rum over to Zayn.

“Oh, yeah,” Zayn says, shrugging a little. He almost looks embarrassed, but he’s clearly _not_ because he’s got his art pinned all over the walls of his bedroom.

“Are you an artist?” Louis asks.

“I do graphic design,” Zayn says. “So I guess jury’s out on that one but... probably not.”

“It counts,” Louis says, grabbing the bottle out of Zayn’s hands because Zayn is holding it but he’s not drinking, and if there is booze at least one of them should be drinking. The burn goes right to his head, and Louis takes another long drag before giving it back to Zayn.

Zayn sits down on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the bottle held loosely in his hand, dangling between his legs. Louis thinks that maybe he should sit on the chair by the desk, but instead he crosses the room, eases himself down beside Zayn, more careful now that his limbs have gone fuzzy with booze. He’s a bit uncoordinated, but also nothing hurts at this point, so it doesn’t really matter.

“What do you do?” Zayn asks.

“I wait tables at the Swan and Firkin on Bloor,” Louis says. “Nothing I can put up on a wall.”

“Hey, that’s hard, too,” Zayn says. “You have to be able to carry those trays with all the glasses. Got to be strong.”

Louis pushes the bottle back into Zayn’s hands and then says, “Totally,” and pushes up his sleeve and flexes his bicep. Except he’s wearing a long sleeved sweater, so pushing up his sleeve really only shows the skin up to his elbow and, while there are probably muscles there, they aren’t really ones that anyone would try to show off. Oh well.

“I was going to be a teacher,” Louis says.

“Yeah?” Zayn finally seems to remember that he’s holding the bottle and lifts it to his lips, taking a number of small, careful sips. He’s gentle about it, but there’s significantly less rum in the bottle when he finally passes it back to Louis, so it seems like he knows what he is doing.

“I don’t know, that’s what I went to university for,” Louis says. “I was trying to find a place to do my practicum, and it was always to schools in like fucking Barrie or whatever, and then looking at the job postings for afterward, there was almost nothing, and if there ever were full-time positions they were in Beaton or Fergus or somewhere else that was too horrible to even contemplate moving to.”

He passes the bottle back and forth with Zayn, slightly regretting that he’s drinking it straight when the punch of alcohol makes his cheeks flush, but oh well.

Louis finishes, “So I started working at the Ferkin down the street, and even part time I was making more than I would have if I was subbing like one day a week, so eventually I just started working there full time and I never actually did the practicum, so I guess I didn’t really want to be a teacher after all.”

“I thought about being a teacher,” Zayn says. “Went to art school and then I was thinking maybe I’d be the fine arts teacher or whatever, except that’s what every single other person in the program was also thinking, so when I graduated I did this yearlong course in graphic design and, yeah. The pay’s shit but at least it’s not a union so I was actually able to convince someone to hire me.”

“Imagine if we’d both ended up being teachers,” Louis says. “Working at the same elementary school in Stouffville or whatever.”

“I don’t even understand how people live in the 905, to be honest,” Zayn says. “I grew up in Oshawa, but like. Fuck that.”

“Fuck that,” Louis agrees. “Are you drunk?”

“The answer isn’t no,” Zayn says. “But it’s almost not yes.”

“I’ve stolen Niall’s pot,” Louis says. “I mean, he gave it to me. I’m holding it, but also we can smoke it.”

“Won’t Niall get mad?”

“Niall doesn’t even know how to be mad,” Louis says. “So do you have rolling papers?”

Zayn doesn’t, but his roommate does, and eventually Louis’s settled on the floor, one of Zayn’s old textbooks in front of him, trying to break up the pot between his fingers.

“It’s kind of sticky,” Louis says, rubbing his first finger against his thumb.

Zayn is sitting across from him, his knee bent and his arms wrapped around his leg. Zayn’s a bit taller than him when they’re standing, but like this Zayn looks small, all tucked in, his skinny leg held tight to his body, the other leg folded beneath him.

Louis’s finger gets caught on the paper, and he sends the little pile of pot he’d crumbled onto the paper all over the flat surface of the textbook, some of it fluttering down onto the ground.

“Whoops,” Louis says. “A little present for later.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Zayn says. As if that explains anything.

“So?” Louis asks.

“I’ll vacuum.”

“Do you always vacuum on Sundays?” Louis asks, looking up from where he’s been trying to pinch the weed back into a pile on the paper. “Always? On every Sunday?”

“I mean, usually,” Zayn says. “I guess. Why, when do you vacuum?”

“Ah ha,” Louis says. “That’s cute. Here, give me one of your cigarettes, I’m going to cut this.”

He pulls off the filter and puts it on the left side of the paper for good measure, pinches the top of the cigarette and works it between his fingers until the tobacco starts falling out.

“It would probably be better to vacuum once a week. I think the point of being an adult is that you’re supposed to realize it’s better to be kind of unhappy most of the time and then you don’t have to deal with those more slow building disasters that make you just really, wretchedly unhappy,” Louis says.

“Is that how you’re trying to live?” Zayn asks.

“God no,” Louis says. “I still think that maybe I’ll be that one exception who manages to get away with never being unhappy at all.”

“How’s that working for you, Peter Pan?” Zayn asks.

Louis lifts his hand and wiggles it back and forth, like _comme ci, comme ça_. “Did I tell you I found mold on my dishes the other day?”

“What?” Zayn asks, huffing out a laugh. “No. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“I hadn’t even left them for that long,” Louis says. “Just since the weekend. But then I went to grab a fork, ‘cause I was out, and when I lifted the plates they were all covered in green.”

“Sanitary,” Zayn says.

“So I just put the stopper in the drain and poured in like half a bottle of that kitchen counter cleaner with bleach.”

“You put bleach on your dishes?”

“Yeah,” Louis says.

“Pretty sure I’d rather eat mold than bleach,” Zayn says.

“I’m going to wash them with dish soap first. Just letting all the mold soak away.”

“You still haven’t washed them?” Zayn asks.

“No, I’m letting them soak, I told you.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Wednesday,” Louis says.

“I don’t think they need to soak for more than two days,” Zayn says.

“Well, anyway. This is rolled,” Louis says, holding up a joint that is significantly lopsided. “Are we doing this?”

“Since you went to all the trouble,” Zayn says with a private grin that Louis catches. Zayn’s kind of … straightforward in this way that Louis doesn’t really understand. He’s not earnest like Liam or enthusiastic like Niall, but he’s both of those things in his own way.

“Enough of the heart to heart,” Louis says, feeling the first prickles of embarrassment for how much he’s been talking. “Give me your lighter.”

They smoke out Zayn’s window, but the wind is strong enough, blowing the smoke back inside, that it’s hardly even worth the bother, and by the time they’re through the joint, Louis’s fingers are frigid and his jaw is locked trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“We should have put coats on,” Louis says, rubbing his hands over his arms.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. It looks like there are goosebumps on his arms as well, but he’s not making any move to warm himself, standing lax in the center of the room, his hands dangling down at his sides.

“You need a sweater,” Louis says, ignoring the way he gets a little lispy over _sweater_. His tongue is stoned and soon his brain will be too.

“I’m alright,” Zayn says. He blinks slowly, and his eyelashes are so long that Louis can hardly even remember that he’s a real person right now. His black eyelashes and the cut of his cheekbones, the shadow of his stubble across the impossibly sharp line of his jaw. He looks like -- Louis would have to touch him to believe that he was real, but the lingering sober part of his brain points out annoyingly that it wouldn’t be the best idea.

Instead, he pulls the blanket off Zayn’s bed and stands beside him, trying to wrap it around both their shoulders. Zayn’s got a double bed, but still the comforter seems like it won’t be big enough to fit around the both of them, until Zayn’s shuffles forward so that they’re standing more face-to-face than side-by-side and helps Louis bundle them up by pulling the edge of the blanket down between them.

At first it doesn’t seem worth the effort. The room is cold from how long they left the window open, and Zayn’s comforter isn’t well insulated for how heavy it feels around Louis’s shoulders. Eventually Zayn pulls the blanket down a little further, wraps it tighter around them, as it starts to warm up.

The comforter smells like Zayn. Zayn smells like Zayn and he’s standing so close. The warm after the cold makes Louis feel suddenly exhausted, unsteady on his feet already from the rum and the pot. He shuffles forward the last half foot until there’s no space between him and Zayn, and lets his head drop forward to rest on Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn looks like the kind of person who would have a large space bubble, but he’s shockingly easy to curl into, and then he makes it easier yet by opening his arms, somehow managing to keep hold of the blanket even as he flattens his palm to the small of Louis’s back.

It’s really warm after that. Louis slides his hands up the back of Zayn’s t-shirt because his fingers are the only parts of him that are still cold, and Zayn’s skin is hot and soft, really really soft as far up as Louis’s hands can reach before they get caught in Zayn’s shirt. Louis wonders what this would be like if they were lying on the bed, if they were lying on the bed and the blanket was on top of them instead of wrapped around them. If they were lying on the bed and Zayn wasn’t wearing any clothes, and maybe Louis wasn’t either, because then it would be easy to touch Zayn’s skin.

In that moment, all the fog in Louis’s head clears away and the longing kicks in so sharply that Louis’s knees buckle, but it’s not. That’s not what this is, he’s just friends with Zayn, he doesn’t even think about other boys that way.

“Sorry,” Louis mumbles, his voice muffled at first by Zayn’s shoulder and he remembers that he has to lift his head. “Sorry,” he says again, stepping back, first with his body before finally sliding his hands away from Zayn’s skin as well. “‘m going to miss the subway again, I have to go.”

“You can stay over,” Zayn says. He’s still so close, even though they’re not pressed together any longer. His voice is quiet and rough, and Louis notices that before he notices how chapped Zayn’s lips are, and then he has to pull even further away because he’s standing far too close to be looking at Zayn’s mouth.

“It’s okay,” Louis says. “I’m just going to -- I’m going to sleep it off.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. His head is tilted to the side, and he must be slouching forward because he seems like the same height as Louis right now. His face seems... the same height, it seems close.

“Sorry,” Louis says, taking another step backward, then another, and then it’s just Zayn standing in his bedroom, his comforter half wrapped around his shoulders, the rest of it trailing down to the floor, and Louis is in the hallway, Louis is down the stairs.

Louis is halfway down the street before he remembers that he still needs to zip up his coat, the cold hitting him hard enough that it takes the rest of the walk to the subway station before he can catch his breath again.

\--

\---

\--

**Six: Harry**

“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” Brock shouts, in front of _everyone_ , when Harry walks into the office at five past seven on Monday morning.

Some of the guys start clapping, and Harry scrubs his fingers through his hair. He drops his hand and tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket. He doesn’t remember how many of them were actually at the bar on Friday, but clearly the story’s already make its way around the office.

“Well,” Harry says, fiddling with his hair uncomfortably. “Anyway. Good morning.”

“So what’s your secret?” Simon says.

“Nothing much,” Harry says. “Just talked a bit.”

“Pussy magnet,” Brock starts chanting, and for a minute Harry’s frozen, wishing desperately that he could think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Everyone’s staring at him, and he doesn’t usually blush but he thinks he might be now, just from how angry he is. He clenches his jaw, curls his mouth into something that is more a grimace than a smile, and then walks the rest of the way to his office.

He pulls his phone out of his brown leather messenger bag and sets it in front of him on the desk. He wants to text someone, but he doesn’t know what to say. _The guys at work think I’m good at picking up women_ , Christ. Especially because it’s so early in the morning. None of his friends will even be awake yet.

He logs onto his email instead -- his real one, not his company address that opens in Outlook. Types out, _Hey Nick, text me when you get this, we should hang out tonight. Come to mine?_ and then closes the browser window. 

\--

Nick knows what he means and shows up after nine in a plaid peacoat with his scarf wrapped around his face three times. He pulls off his jacket and his scarf, lets Harry slide his t-shirt off, kicks his jeans away as they make their way to Harry’s bed.

Nick’s got the loveliest legs and he looks so good in the center of Harry’s bed, his legs splayed out in front of him, that Harry pauses for a moment to appreciate the view.

“Didn’t come here to be gawked at,” Nick says, but Harry can see the hard line of his cock in his briefs.

Harry hums in the back of his throat, gives Nick a dirty grin. He climbs onto the foot of the bed, walking forward on his knees as he drags his palms up the length of Nick’s legs, slowly.

“I know what you came here for,” Harry says after he’s pulled off Nick’s underwear and has settled between his thighs.

Nick’s fussy about prep for someone who’s so eager to get fucked, and he makes Harry use so much lube that the sheets are sticky with it by the time Harry finally pushes inside, and then he moans sweetly and lets Harry take over.

Harry holds Nick’s legs open, one of them folding down toward the mattress and the other up over Harry’s shoulder. Nick’s flexible for someone who has such long legs and it makes it easy for Harry to fuck him deeply. Nick reaches above his head and braces himself with his palms on Harry’s headboard, and it’s the kind of long, hard fuck that Harry only ever has with someone he’s fucked before. It’s easy with Nick because Harry knows what he likes. There’s a limited number of times that they can buddyfuck like this, and Harry knows the count is almost up, but, fuck, it’s worth it tonight. Even if this is the last time, Harry’s so grateful to have this now.

“What was that about then?” Nick asks once they’re properly sorted, the condom disposed of and the bed stripped of the sex sheets and remade with clean ones. Nick likes staying the night and Harry likes having him stay, but once they’ve stopped having sex, it always goes right back to feeling like friends between them.

“The people I work with are assholes,” Harry says.

“Wow, you’re joking,” Nick says. “What a completely shocking concept. I never could have guessed.”

“Shut it,” Harry says, because Nick ragging on lawyers cuts a little too close to home to ever feel like empathy.

“Thought it might be something about this,” Nick says, tapping on the light bruise that Lindsay sucked onto the line leading down to his groin. She was into it, like she was actually having sex because she wanted the orgasm, and they ended up going for round two. She fell asleep for a little while afterwards, while Harry sat at the foot of the bed and check emails on his Playbook.

“Nah, she was good,” Harry says.

“Ew,” Nick says, kind of soft and playful, but he’s said it enough that Harry knows he’s not really joking.

Harry huffs. “I’m not actually gay; I’m not going to stop sleeping with women.”

“In my day we didn’t even have bisexuals,” Nick says.

“In every day they had bisexuals,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and then slapping at Nick’s belly when that doesn’t feel like enough retribution.

“I just don’t want them to change you,” Nick says, uncharacteristically serious. “Now that you’re a fancy pants man in a suit.”

“I’m not going to change,” Harry says. “And you’re the most judgemental person I know. So, pot meet kettle or whatever.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Nick says, “but I’ll tell you the only thing that matters -- I know you sleep with women, but I bet none of them know you sleep with men.”

Harry makes a noncommittal noise and reaches across Nick to turn out the light.

“Alarm’s set for six,” Harry says. 

“I don’t even think the subways are running at six.” Nick moans. “You’re a monster.”

“I can set it for five and you can come to the gym with me,” Harry offers.

Nick makes a low whimpering noise, and Harry runs a soothing hand down his back, uses the gesture as an excuse to roll in for a cuddle, the two of them under Harry’s heavy duvet, where it’s warm and soft and quiet. It doesn’t even smell like sex anymore, just like clean sheets and Nick’s aftershave.

Nick falls asleep quickly, his breathing getting louder and deeper and then eventually quieting again. Harry’s arm falls asleep before the rest of him does and he rolls away, leaving Nick on the other side of the bed as he lies on his back, his arms crossed across his chest. He clenches his hand into a fist, opens his fingers, over and over until the numb heaviness goes away and pins and needles take its place, a buzzing that starts in his fingers before spreading all the way up his arm. 

He keeps opening and closing his hand, slow and steady like a gently beating heart.

\--

The next day he sneaks out at lunch, heads for Yonge street and finds a tattoo parlour almost immediately, where he gets _things i can_ and _things i can’t_ tattooed high up on the insides of his elbows where it’s easy to hide under shirt sleeves, even if he rolls up the cuffs in the summer.

\--

\---

\--

**Seven: Louis**

The sun comes out and melts away most of the snow until all that’s left are the thick scars along the side of the road, crusted black from being plowed off the streets. It looks like it’s going to be warm outside, but Louis wishes he’d brought mitts as he makes his way out of the Bathurst Station.

Harry’s standing in front of Insomnia, texting, and he doesn’t look up until Louis’s right in front of him.

“Hey,” Harry says. “They wouldn’t seat me until you got here. There’s a line but I gave them my name.”

It’s packed inside but they get seated fairly easily because it’s just the two of them and most people are in larger groups. 

They’re all the way in the back, sitting on the arm chairs with a low table between them. Harry’s the only one that Louis goes to brunch with, because brunch is ridiculous and what’s the point of going out if you’re not going to drink? But Harry likes brunch and the potatoes here are better than anything else Louis has ever put in his mouth, so he makes an exception for Harry.

“So how’s it going?” Louis asks once they’re both settled.

“Good,” Harry says. “Been busy, but, you know. Good.”

“Do you get to go to court?” Louis asks. “Are you going to be a judge one day?”

“Um, I don’t really -- probably not.”

“If you’re on the supreme court you have to wear a wig,” Louis says. “I heard that somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sucking foam off of his lip because he ordered a cappuccino.

That basically exhausts the bulk of Louis’s legal knowledge. “So, anyway.”

“You’re good?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Liam’s moving in with Dani - you heard?”

“I did,” Harry says. “Are you throwing them a party?”

“Should I?” Louis asks. “Hadn’t really thought of it.”

“I think Niall’s going to if you don’t,” Harry says.

“He can, then.” Louis _has_ thought about it, but nothing could possibly be more depressing than throwing a party for someone who is leaving him, so Louis decided against it.

“Okay,” Harry says. He’s got his phone in hand but hasn’t actively checked for new messages yet, even though he clearly wants to.

It’s strange being friends with Harry, because they met when Louis was in his last year at York and Harry was starting law at U of T, and were basically inseparable for that whole last year and into Louis’s slow descent to hell, otherwise known as acclimatization to the real world. He didn’t really like being a student either, but at least then the government was giving him money instead of asking him to pay it back.

He spent more time at Harry’s than he did at his own place, because Harry was silly and driven and liked to wear stupid hats and pretend they were Australian tourists when they went to clubs. It was easy being friends with Harry, and then Harry introduced him to Eleanor, and it was still easy being friends with Harry and also easy to date Eleanor, but somehow in there Louis broke up with Eleanor and lost whatever spark made it so seamless between him and Harry. And Liam’s moving out and Louis hasn’t got an acting gig since he was still in university, and he’s not even teaching other people how to act. Those who can’t, teach, and those who really, really, really can’t wait tables.

“How’s Nick?” Louis asks, because their food is nowhere in sight and it’s going to be a disaster if they’ve already run out of things to talk about.

“Good,” Harry says. “He tried to make a quiche the other day but he didn’t poke holes in the pastry so the shell exploded in the oven.”

“Why was he trying to make a quiche?” Louis asks.

“Isn’t that always the question.”

And then Louis zones out while Harry goes off on a tangent about some trip to rescue Nick from the grocery store because he couldn’t find nutmeg and was having a meltdown in front of the eggs. Nutmeg is the stuff they put on top of Pumpkin Spice frappuccinos, which are an insult to human dignity, so Louis can’t imagine why someone would need to buy that for their own personal use.

“And then we had dinner with Henry and Aimee, and, um, Cara, and --”

“Is Cara the one you’re sleeping with?” Louis asks, because that at least would be a little more interesting than a recap of everyone who’s ever had dinner with Nick Grimshaw.

“Oh, um, no,” Harry says. “I mean, we did a bit, but.”

“You had a bit of sex?” Louis asks. “What’s a bit of sex?”

Harry’s sort of shy about talking about sex for someone who spends so much time having it, and long ago Louis made it his mission to embarrass Harry about it as often as possible.

“Not a bit of sex,” Harry says. “We just had sex a bit.”

“Is there anyone you know who you haven’t had sex with?” Louis asks, sitting back in his chair and crossing his hands on top of his stomach.

Harry takes a long sip of his cappuccino, licks his lips clean and says, “Well, there’s you,” before setting the cup back on the table.

“Oh, ha,” Louis says. “There’s the great tragedy of your life.”

Harry shrugs, grinning a little. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I had a bit of a crush on you when we first met.”

“You didn’t,” Louis says.

“I did,” Harry says, pushing his bangs away from his face and into this lopsided quiff that juts out of the top of his head. “Before I figured out how much of an asshole you are.”

“I am not.” Louis gasps.

“You told Caroline that I had a wet dream about her.”

“For all I know that was true,” Louis says. “You spent enough time panting after her.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Harry says, darkly.

“Not like it hurt your game any,” Louis says. “You still hooked up with her.”

“It’s the intent that counts,” Harry says. “You have bad intent. And, anyway, it’s pretty easy to get over crushes on straight boys.”

Louis cocks his fingers into a gun and makes a clicking sound with his tongue, pointing his finger at Harry and ignoring the little swoop of tightness that settles in his gut.

“It’s pretty easy for you to get over anyone,” Louis says.

“Hey,” Harry says, slowly.

“How old were you the first time you had sex?” Louis asks.

“Fourteen,” Harry says, then he looks at the ceiling. “Fifteen? The summer before grade nine. Fourteen.”

“Jesus,” Louis says. “Seriously?” He raises his hand, like, _See?_

“Yeah,” Harry says, shrugging a little. “We were at the cottage most of the time and there was _nothing_ to do. But I got on with the daughter of one of the men my dad is friends with or works with or whatever. She was sixteen.”

“Were you dating?”

“Nah,” Harry says, “but we fooled around a bit. I think she actually got married last summer, I saw the pictures on Facebook.”

“How old were you when you first had sex with a guy then?” Louis asks.

“Depends on what you count as sex, I guess,” Harry says. “Sixteen or seventeen.”

“Was he your boyfriend?”

Harry makes this low little snorting sound. “Definitely not. I didn’t even think about it as being bixsexual then, I was just trying to see how many people I could sleep with before grade twelve. I think I had sex with like twenty people that year.” He tilts his head to the side for a moment. “I think I also had sex with like twenty people this year. I don’t know, it seemed like a bigger deal when I was in high school.”

“No kidding,” Louis says. “Who was the lucky guy then?”

“Marc,” Harry says. “No, Brian. No, I can’t remember, he did have a name. I spent a lot of time getting very very drunk and giving very very terrible blowjobs. It wasn’t like, a bubble bath with floating rose petals and Barry Manilow playing in the background.”

“Right, ‘cause that’s the dream.” If Harry had said _anything_ about the two of them at the time, Louis would have shut it down in a heartbeat, he knows he would have. But now, knowing that it was there and not offered to him, Louis feels strangely off kilter, and prickly because of it.

“Could have been worse,” Harry says. “I think I was in someone’s backyard... we were definitely outside. I don’t even think I managed to get him off. I just wanted to cross something else off the list, don’t think I even knew I liked having sex with guys until I was in first year.”

“At which time you’d already slept with half of your water polo team.”

“I didn’t play water polo,” Harry protests.

“You did,” Louis says. “I’ve see _The O.C._ , I know what you rich boys get up to.”

“I played hockey just like everyone else,” Harry says.

“Half your hockey team then,” Louis says. “It’s the same difference.”

“I was just on the house league,” Harry says. “My parents didn’t want me getting concussed.”

“As if you’d make a rep team even if you tried. You’re like a Weeping Willow that took human form and then tried to skate.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry protests. “You’re even smaller than I am.”

“But I’m solid,” Louis says. “I know how to take a hit.”

Harry picks up his mug off the table again, cleaning space while the waitress drops off their food. Louis goes straight for his potatoes, lifting one into his mouth with his fingers when it takes too long to unwrap his folk from his napkin. It’s like eating a chicken wing that’s soft on the inside and crispy on the outside and has no bones and also is a potato. Louis signs happily, and gives his fork another try while he swallows.

After a long moment of silent chewing, Harry wipes his mouth with a napkin and says, “I do, though.”

“What?” Louis asks, sucking barbeque sauce off his fingers.

“I know how to take a hit,” Harry says. “Your metaphor doesn’t -- you’re supposed to stay soft. Bend without breaking or whatever. That’s why they build skyscrapers to move with the wind.”

“I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about,” Louis says, stuffing another piece of potato in his mouth. Oh lord, this one is like an edge piece, even crispier on the side. Heaven.

\--

\---

\--

**Eight: Harry**

“I have to go make sure they’re putting the a-frames out, and then I can meet you wherever,” Niall says.

Harry moves his cell to his other ear and says, “I didn’t understand what any of that meant.”

“I just have to walk around for a bit,” Niall says.

“You want company?” Harry asks. It’s past eleven and he’s gone for drinks with some of his friends from Western, been home, had a shower, and is ready to head out again.

“Sure,” Niall says. “Meet me at the corner of Richmond and Spadina.”

Niall’s leaning against a TTC pole when the cab drops Harry off, and he doesn’t move away when Harry walks over.

“What are we doing?” Harry asks. “This suddenly has a very _Lost Boys_ feel.”

“So, you’re only allowed to put a-frames out on the weekend,” Niall says, “which technically starts at midnight on Friday. The client’s paying these guys to put out the a-frames, and they said they’d do it at midnight and not, like, first thing Saturday morning. I need to wait until midnight and then go to some of the intersections where they’re supposed to be out and just make sure they’re actually there.”

“Like spies,” Harry says.

“Almost entirely like spies, except that I’m working on a Friday night.”

“I think spies would work on Friday nights,” Harry says. “They’d probably work on all of the different nights.”

“Exactly like spies then,” Niall says, laughing.

For a long time it doesn’t seem like any of the signs have gone out until finally Niall spots one, and then it looks like they’re going to be done at last. All that walking is exhausting.

“My hands are so cold,” Harry says. He tries to tuck them under his armpits, but his jacket is cold and that doesn’t help. He rubs his palms across his thighs, reaches behind to tuck them in his back pockets, and finally just goes for it and sticks his fingers down the back of his pants. “My butt is warm, though.”

Niall laughs, his cheeks flushed red in the cold. 

“I bet your butt is warm too,” Harry says, grinning, pulling his hands free and advancing towards Niall threateningly.

Niall doesn’t stop laughing. He doesn’t back away, even when Harry gets close, right in front of him, even when Harry starts reaching around.

Niall keeps laughing, a little quieter now, his face lifted so Harry can look him in the eye as he gropes around, thwarted by the heavy bulk of Niall’s coat as he tries to find the waist of Niall’s jeans. 

When Harry finally makes contact, Niall’s skin is shockingly warm. His jeans are loose and it’s easy for Harry to slide his fingers down, bumping up against the elastic waist of Niall’s boxers. Niall gasps, jerking a little at the contact of Harry’s frozen fingers, but he still doesn’t move away. He’s stopped laughing now.

Their jackets are all crushed together at the front. Harry gives a final push and settles his fingers just below the top of Niall’s boxers, fingers spread against warm skin.

Niall’s face is tilted up and he’s not laughing and Harry can’t remember why he thought this would be funny, and then Niall reaches up to slide his cold fingers around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him down so that Harry hunches forward until the difference in their heights is negligible. Niall stretches up the rest of the way -- Harry can _feel_ it because he’s got his hands flatted to Niall’s lower back, his fingertips even lower than that. He can feel when Niall moves and that’s all the warning before they’re crushing their mouths together, no lead in, just the frantic slide of Niall’s tongue against his own and the roughness of their cheeks rubbing together. Niall’s fingers are firm against Harry’s neck, holding him steady, and they can’t get any closer than they are with the bulk of their coats between them, but Harry still tries, using his hands to pull Niall in, sucking on Niall’s tongue greedily until Niall makes a high noise in the back of his throat.

“Can we do this?” Harry asks when they finally break away, both breathless.

“Yes,” Niall says, and then he kisses Harry again, like that’s really all it took.

It takes a long time to stop kissing, but finally Niall seems to decide that’s enough and grabs Harry’s hand to pull him down the street, moving fast enough that Harry has to jog to keep up with him. Niall leads them up Yonge, weaving around everyone who’s walking slower than he is, his hand firm around Harry’s as he tugs him along, and then just like that they’re cutting across Elm and up Bay and then they’re in the lobby to Harry’s condo, Niall waiting impatiently while Harry fumbles for his fob.

Harry stands on the other side of the elevator, watching Niall as the numbers slowly click up to his floor. He unlocks the door, his hands shaking enough that it takes three tries to get the keys in the lock, and then he spins around and catches Niall’s arms, pulls him into the condo, backs up until he’s leaning against the wall, Niall close in front of him. Niall’s mouth is hard and insistent and everything Harry wants right now. They kiss in the entranceway until Harry’s hands are warm again, until there’s not a single part of him that feels cold -- that feels anything other than the heat of Niall’s skin and the slick slide of his tongue.

They make it to Harry’s bed eventually, and Harry pulls the covers away, drops his clothes as quickly as he can and pulls Niall on top of him. Niall’s got his shirt off. He’s still in his jeans and Harry wants those gone too, but Niall’s already crawling down the bed, opening his mouth around Harry’s cock, pulling off only to lick the skin as wet as he can get it before he sucks him down again.

Niall sucks cock like he _likes_ it, doesn’t seem to be worried about how wet everything is getting. The firm slide of his hand working over the base makes these slick, dirty noises, but that’s still got nothing on the sloppy sounds of his mouth as he works over the head.

It’s fast and loud and kind of nasty, and Harry can’t even stand how good it feels. He makes this hoarse noise, like someone punched him in the stomach, his leg jerking up, knee colliding with Niall’s elbow as Niall keeps working over him, his tongue and his hand, and Harry has to cover his mouth with his wrist, biting down on the skin like that’s going to help keep him tethered.

He stops breathing when he comes, his back arching off the bed with how strong it is, and once he finally breathes in again, he can’t stop -- gasping wetly and moaning low in the back of his throat as Niall works him through his orgasm, pulling off just as the pleasure goes sharp enough to make Harry’s toes curl.

“Oh god,” Harry moans, shakily, as Niall climbs back up the bed and settles beside him. “I can’t feel my toes.”

Niall laughs. Niall is always laughing, but this is a laugh that Harry’s never heard before, like his voice is raw. Like his throat is raw from how he was just sucking Harry’s cock, and, “Oh god,” Harry says again as he rolls over, crushing his mouth to Niall’s. He’s still too stupid from orgasm to have any coordination, but Niall tastes like Harry’s come and Harry just really wants to suck on his tongue for a little while longer.

Eventually the rushing in his head fades and he feels like his limbs are once again attached to his body.

“Jesus,” he whispers, biting softly at Niall’s jaw in thanks before he slides down Niall’s body. Niall’s pants are loose and it’s easy to tug them down, easy to get Niall’s hard cock out of his boxers. He’s got a pretty dick and it feels good in Harry’s mouth. Harry’s given enough blowjobs that he manages okay even though he’s still clumsy and shaky from how hard he came, but there’s no way he’s as good as Niall was. _Next time_ , Harry thinks before he catches himself, and then he just concentrates on doing as well as he can in the moment.

Niall reaches down at cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, catching a little on where Harry’s curls have gotten tangled in the wind. It hurts enough that Harry wishes Niall would pull his hair properly, so he sucks a little harder and hopes that Niall gets the hint.

Niall curses under his breath the whole time, “Fuck, fuck, oh shit, fuck, fuck, Harry, _fuck_ ,” and then he’s coming, flooding Harry’s mouth, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair, holding him down, and Harry realizes distantly that he’s starting to get hard again.

He swallows, keeps sucking gently on Niall’s cock until Niall moves his hand away, and then he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, dangling over the side until he manages to stand, the duvet off the floor. He pulls it up with him, crawls up beside Niall and covers them both with the blanket.

He doesn’t realize that he’s fallen asleep until he startles awake, flailing a little in confusion when he finds his face pressed into bare skin.

He lifts his head and Niall’s hand comes down. He runs a soothing palm down the side of Harry’s head and says, “I just have to finish this email and then I’ll put the phone away,” like maybe it was the soft sound of Niall typing on his Blackberry that woke Harry up.

Harry doesn’t understand how he fell asleep like this, pressed as close to Niall as he can get while Niall reclines half-upright against Harry’s headboard, holding his phone above Harry’s head.

“Are you saying about the signs?” Harry asks, his voice coming out slurred.

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Go back to sleep.”

He’s not going to, Harry thinks, there’s no way he’s going to fall back to sleep, not with the soft glow coming off Niall’s Blackberry and the weird angle his neck is twisted at, but the next thing he knows it’s morning, and Niall is lying flat on his back, snoring quietly, Harry’s cheek pressed to his breastbone. Harry can hear his heart beating like this. They’re naked and sticky from sleeping so close together through the night, and Harry didn’t get a chance to change the sheets before they fell asleep, but it’s still so comfortable that Harry doesn’t move, just lies quietly, careful not to wake Niall up, and tries to time his breathing to the movement of Niall’s chest.

\--

\---

\--

**Nine: Louis**

Louis wakes to a phone call from the assistant manager asking why he hasn’t shown up for his shift yet.

He stumbles out of bed, says, “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” and tries desperately to remember where he threw his cleanest pair of black jeans after the last time he wore them.

He hadn’t set the alarm the night before because his shift wasn’t until four and he thought for sure he’d wake up on his own by then, but evidently he didn’t consider the full weight of his hangover when he, drunkenly, made that decision. Fuck.

The section of the main room where Liam’s bed used to be is still bare. He hasn’t got any furniture to replace what Liam took with him, and instead has been filling up the space with empty containers that he keeps meaning to bring down to the recycling bin.

Work is busy and everyone is pissed that he’s late and the customers are unimpressed with how many tries it takes him to remember their orders, but he just _can’t_. He’s tired and his head hurts.

Louis gets Zayn’s text while he’s hiding in the bathroom, trying to wake himself up by splashing cold water on his face and writes back, _I’m off at midnight_ , before he’s even consciously decided that he wants to see Zayn again.

He _does_ want to see Zayn again.

Zayn knows about this party thrown by some guys he went to art school with, and Louis just has to get drunk and then he doesn’t have any problem partying with people he doesn’t know.

They meet at the Bloor interchange, and Louis can’t remember if they said they’d meet at the front or back of the southbound train but finds Zayn easily enough, sitting on the bed bench under the DWA sign, his legs crossed, arms folded across his chest, head leaning back against the tiled wall. Louis slides down beside him, and Zayn opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “You looked wrecked.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Basically. Were you sleeping?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says. He rubs his eyes.

“You tired?”

“It’s been a lot of hours in front of the computer,” Zayn says.

“Designing graphically,” Louis says, with a fake-knowing nod.

“They give me a picture and a paragraph of text and then I get to pick a font,” Zayn says. “Not a lot of design, not a lot of graphics. Still takes half a dozen rounds to get approval on the creative.”

“They didn’t like your fonts?”

Zayn sighs, shakes his head, rubs in between his eyes.

“They didn’t even have the copy finalized, so every layout change also came with text changes and that kept fucking me up in little ways. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Can you see when it says the subway is going to come?”

Louis spins around, looks at the screen hanging from the ceiling.

“Three minutes,” he says. “But I think it also said three minutes when I got on the platform. Maybe there’s a delay.”

“Probably,” Zayn says. He makes a face and then snaps his fingers. “Zap, the subway’s here.”

Louis laughs. “What’s that?”

“Just this online comic I’ve been reading,” Zayn says. “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”

“You’re a bit of a secret dork, aren’t you?”

“Was it the bookshelf full of Star Wars action figures that gave me away?” Zayn asks.

“That might have been my first clue. You’ve also got an awful lot of drawings of Power Rangers. And not even just the pink one!”

“Like you didn’t watch Power Rangers, too,” Zayn says.

“Of course I watched Power Rangers,” Louis says. “I’m not a monster. I went as the White Ranger for Halloween like three years running.”

“I was always kind of suspicious of him,” Zayn says.

“Remember when they changed it so they turned into cars instead of dinosaurs?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “That was the worst.”

Louis gasps. “Excuse you.”

“Give me a break,” Zayn says. “A poor knock off of Transformers.”

“You’re a poor knock off,” Louis says, shoving Zayn with his elbow.

Zayn tilts sideways before he sits up again. He looks over at Louis and smiles, like he knows he’s riling Louis up, and there’s this long moment when Louis finds himself grinning back, their shoulders pressed together, both of them sitting on the same side of the hard red bench. He can feel the heat coming off of Zayn’s shoulder where their arms are pressed together, but then the train's pulling into the station and passengers spill out in a tremendous wave and it’s hard not to lose Zayn in the crowd.

There are no seats on the train. Zayn holds on to one of the poles but Louis is okay without as long as he widens his stance and stands sideways to rock back against the subway starting and stopping.

They detour to the LCBO once they’re out of the subway station and buy as many tall boys as they can carry. Louis gets through three during the rest of the walk, throwing the cans into the bushes when he finishes. He’s thirsty from running around during his shift and it’s easy to chug back the beer.

Zayn’s quiet now, but it seems like he’s keeping up with Louis drink for drink. It seems like he checks in and out, has bouts of energy that come and go in waves, but it doesn’t bother Louis. He likes Zayn loud and he likes Zayn quiet.

It’s up a flight of stairs to the main landing and then Louis hangs back while Zayn pushes through the crowd until he finds the guys he knows. The main room is dark except for the strings of Christmas lights draped around the walls. Someone is standing in the corner wearing headphones and staring at the screen of the laptop, iTunes open and music pounding heavily from the box speakers resting on the floor.

Zayn grabs Louis’s elbow, pulls him forward and introduces him around, and then Louis doesn’t feel bad about helping himself to the punch in the kitchen. It’s in this big glass bowl, dark red from cranberry juice, maybe. It takes like nothing but sweetness and Louis finishes his first cup quickly and then pours another one.

He and Zayn make their way from room to room. The hallway is narrow and there are bulletin boards hung everywhere, with little slips of white paper in countless different scripts. Louis pauses and reads, _WilleH, it’s like a spray-can full of old school will smith. perfect for parties, just spray it on someone to make them more fresh_ , before Zayn slips his fingers around Louis’s forearm and Louis remembers to keep walking.

The kitchen is along the corner of one wall, and there’s a couch pushed into the other corner, hanging a foot over into the doorway. The kitchen is a great place to be, because that’s where the punch is, but eventually the punch runs out and people stop coming into the kitchen, but it’s still okay, just him and Zayn. Zayn’s arm is stretched out across the back of the couch, fingertips hanging low to brush against Louis’s shoulder.

“Where did you put my punch?” Zayn asks.

“It’s done,” Louis says.

“No it’s not.”

“It is,” Louis says. “You finished it.”

“I didn’t!” Zayn says.

“You did,” Louis says, schooling his face into a frown. “Sorry, bro.”

“Impossible,” Zayn says, poking at Louis’s side with careful fingers that nonetheless manage to find all of Louis’s ticklish spots. In fairness, it’s not hard to find Louis’s ticklish spots, because primarily he’s ticklish everywhere. That is his least favorite thing about himself.

“Stop,” he groans, making this horrible gasping-snorting noise as he tries to keep himself from laughing. He traps Zayn’s fingers between his own and holds Zayn’s hand while Zayn giggles harder than Louis ever did.

“Told you you drank all the punch,” Louis says. Zayn’s whole face scrunches up when he laughs, little wrinkles forming on either side of his nose, at the corners of his eyes. Louis feels breathless. He waits until Zayn has stopped laughing and then presses his mouth to Zayn’s smile.

Zayn doesn’t stop smiling, and he doesn’t pull away, so that’s -- it’s alright.

It’s awkward party-kissing, where Louis laughs softly in between pressing his mouth to Zayn’s because he’s drunk but not _so_ drunk. Not so drunk that he’s forgotten that this is the first time he’s kissing a boy. Not the _first_ time, because he will do any and everything to win a dare, but the first time that he kissed a boy just because he wanted to. Louis’s mostly been in relationships for as long as he can remember, it feels like, except this past year of being sort of happily, tragically single, but he knows how this goes -- kissing someone new for the first time and laughing it off just because it’s easier than committing fully and risking rejection. He’s never done this with another boy, but it’s the same. Probably.

They’re still in the middle of the kitchen, twisting sideways on the couch so that they can reach each other’s mouths. Louis can’t stop listening for the sounds of someone coming into the room, but no one seems to be paying them any attention. Louis feels surrounded, the noises of the party never really fading away, the base of the music in the other room still coming in strong. The sound of Zayn’s sharp inhale comes through louder than anything else.

Louis thinks he’s been here before. He’s been to this party, he’s seen these people making out before. It’s him tonight but it will be someone else tomorrow, like everyone in the whole world has come and gone through this house.

He opens his eyes and bites at Zayn’s lower lip, catching it sharply between his teeth and holding on. Zayn makes a low, hurt sound but doesn’t pull away.

Louis kisses him deeper.

They keep kissing until Louis’s tongue is dry and his neck hurts from being twisted around all weird, and even then they only part because a group comes into the room and yells, “Zayn, there you are, Omar’s got the video up on his phone, you have to see.”

Zayn’s gone and Louis’s the only one sitting on the couch. He rubs his palms over his thighs and tries to calm his breathing. He feels like he’s suffocating, like there’s nothing but music in this house, like someone sucked all the air away. The punch must have been deadly; Louis feels like he’s finally hit the point where he’s actually too drunk, too drunk like he hasn’t been in years, not with all the practice he has throwing it back. He’s too drunk and now his body has forgotten how to breath properly.

He wonders if he should say goodbye to Zayn, but he doesn’t know where Zayn is and leaving is more important.

Louis takes off, walks as fast as he can until he hits Bathurst and then makes a guess as to which direction is north and hopes he hits Bloor soon. It’s warm for early March, and the wind is wet from yesterday’s rain. His hands don’t get cold but he has a chill running down the back of his spine that he can’t chase away.

He makes it back home and kicks at the empty yogurt tub that’s lying in the middle of his floor, suddenly spitting mad at Liam for leaving, furious at Zayn for fucking with his head. He hates everything in the world, but nothing more than the haggard face staring blearily back at him as he swishes toothpaste around in his mouth.

\--

\---

\--

**Ten: Harry**

Harry doesn’t recognize him at first, the suit with the shock of bright blonde hair who just walked through the door.

“Whoa, Niall,” Louis says, once Niall has spotted them and made his way over to the table.

“Looking sharp, buddy,” Zayn says.

Niall raises his eyebrow in confusion before he looks down and says, “Oh, yeah, I came straight from work.”

“You wear suits to work?” Harry asks, sounding more surprised than is probably polite. But what the hell? He’s _never_ seen Niall in a suit before.

“Sometimes,” Niall says, easily. “For meetings with clients or whatever.”

They’re sitting at the back of Sneaky Dee’s, two platters of vegan nachos (with dairy cheese) in front of them on the table. Louis and Zayn are sitting across from each other, not making eye contact each time they brush fingers after grabbing at the same piece of nacho. Harry’s vaguely interested in whatever drama is going on there, but that’s quickly been dwarfed by Niall, who’s pulling up a chair so that he can sit at the end of the table, kitty corner to Harry. He gives Harry a quick smile and then starts to peel off his layers.

It’s strange to watch. Niall sits, pulls off his blazer, undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, revealing enough skin to make it clear that he’s not wearing a tanktop underneath. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, the buttons at the cuffs undone so that he can push the ends of his sleeves all the way up to his elbows before he reaches into the messy plate of nachos, grinning to himself as he grabs an especially cheesy piece.

He perks up as the waitress walks by. She’s thin and pierced and tattoed and bored, just like everyone else who works here, and seems unimpressed with Niall, who’s completely unconcerned as he orders another pitcher of beer and another plate of nachos.

His white shirt looks like it’s been ironed, and Harry tries to imagine Niall standing in his apartment, ironing a pile of dress shirts as he gets ready for the week. It’s the weirdest thing to imagine, but he _can_ , he can picture Niall standing over an ironing board, maybe one of those little ones that rest on tables, wearing his sweats, the music blaring on his computer. It’s the first time he’s seen Niall since they hooked up, and he thought it would be easy to pretend like nothing had happened, but instead he feels fixated.

“What’s your job, anyway?” Harry asks, twisting around in his chair so that he’s facing Niall.

“Account Manager,” Niall says around a mouthful of nachos.

“So that’s, like. You have an office?”

“I do have an office,” Niall says as he reaches for his beer. “It’s just a little one, though. There’s no window.”

“Right,” Harry says, trying to bite back the rest of his incredulous questions.

“What did you think I did?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “You’re on Twitter a lot.”

“You thought my job was to tweet?”

“No,” Harry says. “In combination, maybe. Marketing stuff.”

“Why do you seem so surprised right now,” Niall asks, giving Harry the side-eye.

This probably isn’t the best place to be having this conversation, but Liam’s just come in and Louis and Zayn are distracted, and anyway the music is up loud enough that Harry can barely hear Niall, even though they’re sitting close together.

“You’re just so chill, and. I don’t know. We hooked up.” This conversation would be easier if Harry could think about anything _other_ then them hooking up. It’d be easier if Niall hadn’t opened so many buttons on his shirt, if Harry couldn’t imagine pulling open the rest. Niall’s hair is gelled up on his forehead and Harry wants to scrub his fingers through it.

“So?” Niall asks, wiping off his fingers with the paper napkin and looking away from the food and right at Harry.

“I didn’t even know you were gay,” Harry says. “Gay?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, nodding. “Well, I don’t know how you missed than one given that you met my fucking boyfriend.”

“What? When?”

“He came to visit!” Niall snaps, his cheeks starting to flush. Niall’s so pale and it’s easy to read the heat on his skin, even as Harry realizes that maybe he doesn’t know how to read Niall at all.

Harry tries to think back. “What, that Newfie friend of yours?”

“Sean,” Niall says, scowling. “My boyfriend. And I’ve told you a million times, I grew up in St. John.”

“Sean’s your boyfriend?”

“Was,” Niall says. “When you met him, he was my boyfriend.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

“How did you not know? You saw us kissing.”

“I thought it was just like, you know, everyone talks about how friendly people from the Maritimes are.”

“You’re an idiot,” Niall says. “When have you ever seen me kiss any of my other friends?”

“You kissed me,” Harry says.

“Yup,” Niall says, darkly. Darkly for Niall, anyway, with his bright pink cheeks and bright blond hair.

“So that wasn’t -- that wasn’t friends,” Harry says.

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Niall says, turning his head away and starting to hunch in on himself. “We don’t need to talk about this.”

“I think, um, maybe I’ve had my head up my ass a bit,” Harry says. He reaches under the table and knocks his knuckles against the side of Niall’s leg, opening his hand over Niall’s thigh when Niall doesn’t pull away.

“I hooked up with you because I like you,” Niall says, his voice steady even though his cheeks are going an even darker shade of red. “It’s fine if you don’t want to do it again, I’m not going to make it weird.”

“I just don’t know how you’re so chill about everything,” Harry admits softly, his voice nearly lost under the hum of all the other conversations happening around them, the weight of the music blasting down from the speakers. “I don’t know how not to care what people think of me.”

Niall shrugs, his leg jittering a little under the weight of Harry’s hand.

“People don’t have to know everything about me,” Niall says. “I closed on a client who signed a six month contract today; I like that I’m good at my job. I liked sucking your cock and I want to do it again, and we can tell people or not, but there’s no point to doing something if it’s not for real.”

Harry exhales shakily, crushing the slippering fabric of Niall’s dress pants with his palm, like everything’s going to fall apart if he lets go of Niall.

“I don’t know how to tell the difference anymore,” Harry says, turning his head and coughing into his shoulder in an attempt to clear the tightness from his throat. It doesn’t help.

“Yeah, you do,” Niall says. 

“How do you know?” Harry asks.

“I know you,” Niall says, and for the first time it feels calming to hear that. Like after hearing it so many times before, finally it sounds true coming from Niall. If Niall can know himself that well, maybe he _does_ know Harry too.

“And you still want to do this?” Harry asks, hoping that Niall can’t tell how much his hand is sweating. He can’t quite manage to keep his voice even. He feels brutally exposed, sitting at this booth, graffiti on the walls around them and a Leaf’s game playing on the TV above their heads.

“ _Yes_ ,” Niall says, finally lifting his hand to cover Harry’s, their fingers tangling together before Harry twists his wrist around so his palm is up and they can hold hands properly.

“Okay,” Harry says as he reaches over with his other hand as well, capturing Niall’s hand in both of his own and holding on tightly. And then, belatedly, “Good.”

“Good,” Niall echos and then he leaves his hand in Harry’s for the rest of the night.

\--

\---

\--

**Eleven: Louis**

“Sorry,” Zayn says after the third time that Louis has jerked his hand away guiltily after making contact with Zayn’s fingers, both of them reaching for the same nacho chip.

Louis opens his mouth to say it’s fine, to say, _I’m sorry_ , but Liam’s just arrived, sliding into the seat beside Louis’s.

There’s another pitcher of beer on the table and Louis’s looks at his glass. It’d be easy to finish what’s left of his beer, pour another one, let everything awkward and tense float away until maybe he has the guts to touch Zayn on purpose instead of flinching away every time they make contact by accident.

“I’m going to go,” Louis says instead, pushing his glass away.

Zayn’s quiet, sitting on the other side of the table and watching Louis with huge eyes, chewing on the edge of his lip.

“Do you want to come with me?” Louis asks.

Zayn blinks, surprised, and nods, following Louis out of the bar and across the street to wait for the streetcar.

The air is soft outside from this afternoon’s rain and even though it’s cold enough that Louis can feel the wind through his jacket, it still feels like spring.

Zayn’s quiet for the whole trip back, sitting beside Louis on the streetcar, walking beside him as they transfer onto the subway, following after him as Louis walks them around the back of the building and lets them in the side door.

Louis doesn’t know why he’s bringing Zayn back to his apartment -- it’s a wreck. He kicks off his shoes and throws his coat over the back of the couch (already covered in clothes and unfolded laundry from last month that’s probably gotten dirty again from how long it’s been left out) and waits for Zayn to step inside before closing the door behind them.

“Do you want something to drink?” Louis asks, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and trying to fight back the kick of shame of having Zayn here.

“I’m okay,” Zayn says.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “So.”

“I’m going to smoke,” Zayn says, walking over to Louis’s window. It slides open to the side but there’s this hidden latch that stops it from opening more than a couple inches, so Louis has to go over and help Zayn get it open the rest of the way.

Zayn lights his cigarette, blows smoke past the screen and into the night sky while Louis hovers awkwardly beside him and tries not to stare.

“Is it... ‘cause we’re both guys?” Zayn asks, softly.

Louis startles, because Zayn’s been silent for so long. His voice is quiet and he keeps smoking methodically, staring out the window instead of looking at Louis.

“No. I mean, yeah, sort of. I mean, I don’t know. I mostly thought I was straight,” Louis says.

“And now?” Zayn asks.

Louis shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“You’re not being a dick, I just.” Zayn scrubs his hand across his forehead. “I thought you were into it.”

“I was,” Louis says. “I am, I don’t know. I don’t -- Christ. I am way too fucking old to be learning something new about myself.”

“That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard in my life,” Zayn says, glaring at Louis.

“I just mean. We’re not kids,” Louis says. “I don’t want to be getting drunk and making out just because it’s hot at the time or a funny story later or whatever. Liam’s moving in with his girlfriend because eventually they’re going to get married and that’s what _I_ want. I’m not supposed to be this much of a disaster.”

“I don’t think you’re a disaster,” Zayn says carefully. He sounds kind of lost, and looks like his face is going to go very sad at any moment. Zayn’s the kindest person that Louis has ever met. He’s not effusive or excessively cheery, he’s just... kind. And dorky and unnervingly easy to talk to, and Louis can’t stand being the person who’s making Zayn look sad.

Louis twists his fingers through his hair. “My mom had three kids by the time she was my age, and I’m maybe like three months away from being evicted. I can’t stand that Liam is leaving and that he has something I want and don’t have.”

It’s terrible to have Zayn here in his apartment, to be saying these things, but Louis can’t stop now that he’s started.

“Everyone’s moving on without me, and it’s horrible and I hate it,” Louis says.

“But I’m right here,” Zayn says. He snubs out his cigarette on the metal bar of the screen and leaves the butt in the grate, which is kind of gross but also nowhere near the grossest thing in Louis’s apartment right now. “I thought you were going to be another loud, drunk guy at the party, but then you sat with me all night in the kitchen. You’re moody as hell, but so am I, and. I don’t know, maybe we can figure it out.”

He crosses his arms and turns to face Louis full on and Louis just _can’t_. He takes the two steps forward until he’s right in front of Zayn, cups Zayn’s jaw in his hands and leans in, kissing him hard, their mouths catching in this desperate kiss that gets immediately wet and rough and needy. Louis can’t let go of Zayn’s face, doesn’t want to give him the chance to leave, pulling him in tighter and tilting his head to a better angle so that he can suck on Zayn’s tongue.

Eventually he registers Zayn’s hands on his wrists, realizes that Zayn’s gentle touch is guiding him away, and he springs backward, as far away as he can get with Zayn’s fingers still wrapped around his wrists.

“Just wait a sec,” Zayn says, tightening his grip when Louis tries to shake him off. “You said that you don’t want to be some stupid, drunk hookup. That’s what I want, you clown.” He pulls Louis in until he’s close enough that Zayn can drape his arms on top of Louis’s shoulders, his hands clasped loosely behind Louis’s head.

They’re so close like this that Louis has to close his eyes, resting the tips of his fingers low on Zayn’s hips.

“So let’s just make out a bit and then go to bed, and then tomorrow I’ll help you take all this shit down for recycling,” Zayn says, kicking at the empty cereal box that’s on the floor beside them.

“It’s really empty without Liam here,” Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

“I know, babe,” Zayn says. “But leaving piles of garbage just isn’t helping.”

Louis laughs in spite of himself, ducking his head so that he can bury his face into Zayn’s neck, smothering his giggles and then pressing a kiss under Zayn’s jaw, and then another, and another, until Zayn is tilting his head down to meet Louis’s lips, kissing him slow and deep.

\--

Louis wakes up and the sun is shining through the window because they forgot to close the blinds last night.

Zayn is sleeping face down, his hand tucked under his chin.

Louis reaches over and slides his fingers across the back of Zayn’s hand, down his arm, around the curve of his elbow and up his bicep, running his fingers over soft skin and dark tattoos until Zayn finally stirs awake, blinking slowly.

He smiles when he sees Louis’s lying beside him and turns, carefully so that he doesn’t dislodge Louis’s hand, until he’s on his side and they’re facing each other.

“Did you sleep okay?” Zayn asks, his voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” Louis says. They curled up beside each other in Louis’s bed, stayed up most of the night talking and kissing until they were too tired to do either anymore. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep again but Louis leans in for a kiss before he gets the chance. He keeps the kiss shallow, just long sucking kisses and little teases with the tip of his tongue until Zayn exhales loudly and rolls onto his back, pulling Louis on top of him.

“I thought we weren’t doing the hook up thing,” Zayn says breathlessly, when Louis’s hand slides up his stomach, pushing his t-shirt out of the way so that he can rub his fingers over Zayn’s nipple.

“‘s not a hook up,” Louis says. “Do you want to stop?”

“ _No_ ,” Zayn says, rolling them over until he’s on top, his legs tangling with Louis long enough for Louis to buck his hips and grind their dicks together.

Zayn sucks in a harsh breath before dipping down to kiss Louis, his hand skimming down Louis’s waist.

“Jesus,” Louis pants into Zayn’s neck, as Zayn’s hand dips below the waistband of his pants, his fingers brushing up against the head of Louis’s dick. He reaches for Zayn’s wrist and pushes down until finally Zayn grabs him properly, circles his hand around Louis’s dick and gives this tiny tug, his movement restricted by Louis’s jeans.

Louis pulls open the button on his jeans, wiggles his hips to slide them down until his dick is out and Zayn’s able to jerk him off properly. Zayn pulls his hand away long enough to lick his palm wet and then he grabs Louis’s dick, pulling firm and steady over him until Louis has to make a little noise, digging his heels into the mattress and arching his back.

“Okay?” Zayn asks.

“Yes,” Louis hisses. “Yes, okay, don’t stop.”

“You look so good right now,” Zayn says, his voice hushed like they’re sharing secrets as he slowly unravels the growing ball of want that’s filling up Louis’s chest.

Louis gropes down until he can wrap his fingers around the thick line of Zayn’s cock, tenting out the front of his pants. He can’t do much from his angle, is too distracted by the slick pressure of Zayn’s hand working over his cock to be much use anyway, but he rubs over Zayn’s dick as best he can, pushing a little harder until Zayn lets out this shuddery exhale and crushes their mouths together in another kiss.

Louis’s body lets go easily, still fuzzy from sleep, and he rocks up, fucking into Zayn’s grip until he comes, twisting around and hiding his groan by pressing his mouth to Zayn’s shoulder. They’re still wearing most of their clothes but he feels exposed, whimpering into the crook of Zayn’s neck while he shoots off in Zayn’s hand.

“Hey, it’s okay, there you go,” Zayn murmurs and eventually Louis manages to lift his head, letting Zayn look at him while he twists his hand one last time, working Louis through to the end of his orgasm.

“I’ll help you do laundry,” Zayn says and then wipes his hand clean on Louis’s sheet, but Louis doesn’t care about that, doesn’t care about anything except pushing Zayn backward on the bed and getting his tongue into Zayn’s mouth. He feels charged, hungry for the noises Zayn makes when he starts rubbing at his dick again, forcing his hand to start moving after he went lax with orgasm.

He gets Zayn’s jeans down, pulls them all the way off and throws them over the side of the bed and then takes off Zayn’s t-shirt as well. He wants Zayn naked, wants to be able to touch bare skin, to see all of him in the early morning light.

He licks his hand and starts jerking Zayn off slowly, biting gently at Zayn’s mouth until Zayn has to pull away and gasp for air. He uses his other hand to touch Zayn’s chest, sliding his fingers across the sharp cut of Zayn’s collarbone, flicking his thumb over Zayn’s nipple. Zayn runs his hand up and down Louis’s back, his fingers tightening and releasing depending on how Louis touches him, until Louis speeds up his hand, adds a twist with his thumb over the head of Zayn’s cock on each upstroke, and Zayn stills, clinging to Louis’s shoulder as Louis jerks him harder and harder. He’s silent when he comes, his head tipping back, mouth opening soundlessly, and Louis waits until he finally sucks in a breath before slowing the rhythm of his hand and leaning down for another kiss.

“See,” Louis says, interrupting himself to peck at Zayn’s mouth again. “No one’s drunk. I’m not a clown.”

“You’re a bit of a clown,” Zayn says, pressing his grin to Louis’s mouth.

“But you’re still here,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

\--

\---

\--

**Twelve: Harry**

“Hey,” Harry whispers, nudging Niall’s cheek with his nose. “Hey.”

Niall makes an incoherent noise before prying his eyes open.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Harry says, already dressed, leaning over the side of the bed so that his face is right beside Niall’s. “But I’ll see you tonight, right?”

“Louis’s thing?” Niall asks. He’s shirtless and he kicked the sheet off while he slept, his skin still hot to touch even though they left the air conditioner on all night long. The humidity in August is brutal.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “At nine, I think.”

“You going straight there, or do you have time for dinner first?” Niall asks.

“I think just straight there,” Harry says. “I’ve got this massive brief to get through.”

“Okay,” Niall says easily. Harry works stupid hours, but Niall never gets mad, just meets up with Harry when Harry’s finally done, except on the nights when Niall’s the one working stupid hours and sliding into bed once Harry’s already fallen asleep.

He gives Niall a kiss good morning and makes it into the office before 7:30.

He’s got a conference call at 8, a meeting with clients at 9:30, and he manages to get in four phone calls while he’s eating his sandwich over lunch, and then finally he’s got time to work on the briefing, which he’s got to get to the senior partners before the end of the day.

They’ve been working on this case for ages, and Harry thinks they’re actually going to win it. He gets these brief moments of satisfaction, like he’s actually good at what he does, like he’s actually able to figure something out that’s making a difference -- to the case, to the firm, to his clients. Mostly he feels exhausted and overwhelmed and stressed, but sometimes it’s good. More and more, lately, it’s been good.

Rita was working on a similar case last month, so Harry goes to her office, knocks softly, and when she beckons him in, asks if she’s still got the spreadsheet with the breakdown of stats.

“Yeah,” she says. “Here, look, is this what you want?” she asks, pulling up a document on her computer.

Harry walks over to stand behind her, his arm across the back of her chair as he leans in to squint at the computer screen.

“Watch out,” Simon says, draping his arm across the doorframe and leaning in to Rita’s office. He gestures to Harry, standing behind Rita, and says, “You’re in close proximity to the pussy magnet.” He wiggles his fingers as he back away from her office and says, “Try to resist the pull.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, stepping away. He feels suddenly awkward about the hand he had resting across the back of her chair, and shoves his fingers into his pocket.

“He’s an asshole,” Rita says. She looks behind her shoulder at Harry, now noticeably further away, and says, “And you’re not that irresistible.”

Harry opens his mouth, almost closes it again but he _wants_ to say something, so he finally does. “That’s what my boyfriend says,” Harry says with a shoulder shrug. “But I’m pretty sure he was lying.”

Rita barks out a little surprised laugh.

“Your boyfriend sounds like a sensible guy,” Rita says.

“He has his moments,” Harry says. “Last Saturday we were up until 3am trying to make pizza dough because he wanted to have homemade pizza, but didn’t remember that you have to let the dough rise for eight hours first.”

Rita shakes her head and Harry realizes that he probably has a stupid grin on his face, and tries to bite down on his cheek. It’s the first time he’s told anyone from work and he feels almost giddy with how well she’s taking it.

“How long have you been together?” Rita asks.

“Five months?” Harry says, trying to count backwards. “Almost six?”

“Nice,” Rita says, nodding. She turns back to the computer. “So was this what you were looking for?”

“Do you have it with the full breakdown?” Harry asks, leaning against the back of her chair again.

\--

Harry remembered Louis taking improv classes when he was still in university, but then it seemed like he stopped for a long time, so it was a bit of a surprise when he invited them all out to see him perform at The Comedy Bar on a Wednesday night.

“I didn’t know you were still doing this,” Harry says, sitting beside Louis at a small table outside of the performance space as they wait for everyone else to arrive.

“I guess,” Louis says. “I mean, it’s just for fun, but. Yeah. I started again.”

“That’s awesome, Lou,” Harry says, knocking his elbow against Louis’s.

“It was Zayn’s idea,” Louis says, shrugging, and then Niall’s walking through the door, Zayn and Liam following close behind.

Someone comes up and taps on Louis’s shoulder and he says, “Okay, crap, I’ve got to meet with the team. Umm, I’ll see you after?”

“Break a leg,” Harry says.

\--

They all wait for Louis by the bar once the show is over. Zayn’s bouncing on his toes, more animated than Harry has ever seen him before, and when Louis finally comes over to them, his whole face lights up.

“That was amazing,” Zayn says, pulling in so they’re pressed together all the way down their bodies. Zayn’s beaming, all scrunchy faced and delighted, and Louis’s goes delightfully pink. Harry’s tempted to pull out his iPhone and take a picture so that he can bug Louis about it later, but he decides to let them have their moment.

“It went a bit off in the middle,” Louis starts.

“It was good,” Zayn interrupts.

“Thanks,” Louis says, suddenly quiet for someone who just crawled across the stage and pretended to be a dog about to give birth. He gives Zayn a crooked smile, and Zayn leans over to kiss him.

“You were really funny,” Zayn says, once their mouths part.

Louis jerks back a little, affronted. “Of course I was funny.”

“No, but like,” Zayn says, “you were actually really _funny_.”

“I’m always funny!” Louis protests.

“Everyone was laughing,” Zayn says. “It was amazing. I couldn’t believe that I was watching you on stage, and everyone was laughing.”

“You’re genuinely trying to pull my leg,” Louis says, squinting evaluatively at Zayn. “You’re having me on right now.”

Zayn laughs, soft and clear, and pulls Louis in. He tucks their heads together and says, “I know you’re always funny. It _was_ pretty sweet to see you on stage though.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, tilting his face up for another kiss.

Liam eventually cuts in, and says, “I thought you were good too, Louis. Zayn, stop hogging him.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Zayn says, stepping back but leaving his arm slung around Louis’s shoulder.

Harry bumps his hips against Niall’s until Niall steps forward and they crowd around Louis, pawing at them until he shrugs them all off and says, “Okay, enough,” stepping behind Zayn and hiding his face in Zayn’s shoulder.

“Aw, you made him shy,” Liam says. “I’ve never seen him get shy before.”

“Everyone stop torturing me,” Louis says, “or I’m never inviting you to one of my shows again.”

“So are we going to go find a patio or what?” Niall asks. “Harry told Grimmy we were going to meet up with them at Future’s.” Even though it was actually Niall who said they’d meet him there, after he’d taken the phone out of Harry’s hands. Niall and Nick get along better than Harry could have hoped for, even though Nick always seems slightly confused by Niall’s complete lack of boundaries.

“Patio,” Zayn agrees.

“Christ, I’m hot,” Harry says as they step outside, realizing belatedly that he’s still wearing his suit jacket after coming straight over from the office. “I brought street clothes but I forgot to change.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall says, reaching over to undo the top button of Harry’s shirt, his fingers skimming across Harry’s collarbone briefly before he drops his hand away. “You look good.”

“Okay,” Harry says easily. He turns around and yells, “Liam, tell Louis and Zayn to stop making out or we’re going to be late.”

“You need to stop making out,” Harry hears Liam say behind them. “Even if we’re not going to be late, I just don’t want to see that much tongue. Louis? Zayn! _Louis_.”

It’s a twenty minute walk to Future Bakery, all the way down Bloor. They walk through Koreatown; walk past Clinton’s, where he and Niall spent last Thursday dancing to 60’s music at Shake, Rattle and Roll; walk across from Smoke’s (Niall’s the only person Harry has ever met that can finished a large poutine on his own); walk in front of Honest Ed’s and then finally they’re at Future Bakery, where Nick’s already got a table outside and everything comes with a side of mashed potatoes and this weird mushroom gravy that Louis loves and Zayn hates. The patio is just off Bloor, tucked at the top of a residential street, this little pocket of quiet amidst the noise and the lights.

Bloor Street is busy still, people spilling out onto the sidewalk. The sun has just set but there’s still that warm glow of dusk lingering, like it never really gets dark in August. It never gets dark in the city, the lights from the signs and the windows and the street posts, the movement of the crowds. Harry’s just one of many, but that’s grounding somehow, like if there’s space for everyone else, there must be space for him too.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [livejournal](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/315972.html).


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